AlienX: A Gathering Storm: Chapter 1: Job Fair
by Nitebreaker
Summary: The Norstromo has made planetfall, and a singular request is sent out, indicating a new mission. But what that mission will entail could easily spell disaster on a cosmic scale. Sequel to AlienX: A Different Light. Now complete.
1. Chapter 1

AlienX: A Gathering Storm, Chapter 1: Job Fair

…..

 _I don't own any part of the Alien/Alien/Predator franchise._

…

Chapter 1: Job Fair

Cedric Siraq approached the spaceport, re-reading the ad he'd come across on his tablet: _Wanted: Good worker with solid tech background. No family, no planetary ties. Long journey, high pay, some gopher duties. No questions. References required. Report to the_ _Norstromo_ _for interview._

Hm. Cryptic much? He thought. But then again, it told the basics. But the "no questions" part disturbed him a little. He didn't want to sign on to a pirate vessel, even though the last reported one was "pacified" (read: blown to smithereens) nearly a hundred years ago.

And it wasn't like he had a whole lot of options. Those guys from the Casino wanted their money. He'd already been warned once. He knew from painful experience their sort didn't warn you twice.

He made his way to the gate of the port, his long full-length coat flapping in the gathering wind. One good thing about an old-style duster: you _could_ conceal a couple of small surprises in it, and no one the wiser. In this part of town, that was just plain good sense. Better to have 'em and not need 'em… "Yeah?" said the guard, sleepily. He was more of a gatekeeper than a true security officer, and a little annoyed at being waked up. "You here about the ad?"

"Uh huh. Which one's the _Norstromo_?"

"This one." The guard fiddled with his controls a moment, pulling up a map, with a red "X" in one parking area, and beamed it to Siraq's tablet. "Ya can't miss it." He went back to sleep as Siraq made his way to the area designated.

The ship had definitely seen better days. The outer hull looked like the emergency shuttle had been prepared for launch, and then halted halfway through. The blast doors were open, and he could see the sealed compartment inside, the hasty, clumsy repairs. Yeah, he could see why the ad said "tech experience." What in space had happened to this ship, anyway?

And something else: the whole time he'd been walking down this way, he'd had a feeling that he was being watched.

The intercom: "Hello. I'm Cedric Siraq. I'm here about the job."

There was a brief pause, and he could imagine whoever was inside sitting down, adjusting the mic pickup. Then, _"Yes? Have you references?"_ It was a woman's voice.

Siraq had to physically restrain himself from rolling his eyes. Not another woman captain. He didn't know if he could take anymore. The last one had been a certifiable lunatic—and that was on a good day. "Yes," he replied, punching buttons on his tablet, sending the scan to the ship's waiting computer.

Again the intercom clicked on. _"Impressive. I note you've had considerable experience with deep space repairs?"_

"The _Culloden_ , three years ago."

" _I heard about that. You were an Engineer level 2?"_

"I was."

" _That was your last employment?"_

"Times are tough."

" _Indeed they are. How have you managed, may I ask?"_

"A little of this, a little of that. I got by." _Until those bruisers show up the next time. Good time to be off-planet by then._

There was another pause, and Siraq could imagine the captain scanning the local net for him. "I'm not wanted by the law, if that's what you're looking for."

" _Actually, it wasn't. Come around to the emergency air lock. We'll discuss the job."_

The emergency air lock, on the other side of the ship, had a ramp hauled up to it, obviously at the captain's request. The door swung open. The interior was sparse, and the sealed doorway into the interior of the ship was tightly shut. He looked around. There was no one there, and no place to sit, so he just crossed his legs on the floor.

The doorway remained closed.

Something about the tension in the situation made him more alert than ever. He didn't know how he knew, but senses dating back to the days when his ancestors had hunted their food with wooden clubs were tingling. Something was wrong here. "You said, the job?"

A monitor over by the door activated. He looked at it, expecting to see the image of the woman captain. But instead, the image remained blank. The voice reproducer, however, was clear. _"I apologize for the lack of a video component. The ship suffered some damage in deep space, and most, if not all, of the internal vid pickups are out. The voice relays, as you can hear, function fine, and that will have to be our primary means of communication. There's some repairs I need made, but funds are a bit of a problem right now. I can't do everything all at once. So the unnecessary will just have to wait._

" _Let's get something out of the way. One thing I was searching for was someone skilled at negotiating on the black market. I have my reasons for not doing it myself. I need someone who can act in my stead. In fact, if you were seriously wanted by the law, you really wouldn't be appropriate for this job. So it's good that you're not."_

"Er…the black market?"

" _Yes. I have some items to move. The next mission for this vessel depends upon it."_

"Well…." He was acutely conscious that this could all be a trap. Get him in here, get him to admit to some faceless authority that he'd _not exactly_ avoided the black market—and out would come the cuffs. "Let's just say…I'm a fast learner."

" _But no actual experience?"_

"I didn't say _that._ "

" _Mr. Siraq, let me take this time to reassure you, this job is on the level. I'm not trying to trap you. You've seen the damage to my ship. I need parts, repairs done to it. I need supplies. I've a certain mission that, I think, will prove to be most profitable—to both of us. But I will need someone reliable who can act for me."_

"Why can't you just do it yourself? The black market stuff, I mean. I mean, yeah, repairs, I'm your man…and while I'm not sayin' I _can't_ hock your stuff…I hope you'll understand when I say I don't feel comfortable enough yet to say…anything else."

It might've been just his imagination, but he seemed to detect the barest hint of a sigh over the intercom. Then, _"Very well. I suppose I can see your point. But I need answers. Can you or can you not move my goods?"_

"Will you accept it if I say I believe I can?"

" _I suppose it'll have to do. However, your continued employment will depend upon three major factors: one, your ability as an engineer—and from what I've seen, that's considerable-, your ability to negotiate a good price for my merchandise at the upper and the lower levels of the black market, and—and this is paramount—your ability to work without asking questions. Any questions. The day you decide you can no longer do that, is the day you will leave my employ._

" _Does that sound fair to you?"_

Siraq felt his senses tingling even more. "I won't be party to breaking any level one laws. I don't wish to be hunted from one world to another."

" _I'm not asking you to do that. You will not be asked to murder, kidnap, or anything of that nature. I'm no pirate. Though I hesitate to say you will not be called upon to steal, or—to put it more accurately-to perform acts others may regard as tantamount to stealing. There is a certain corporation that, let's just say, could easily take a dim view of my actions."_

"What company-?"

" _Remember, no questions. But I suppose I can answer that one. It's Weyland-Yutani."_

" _Weyland-Yutani?"_ Just the mere words ignited something volcanic in his chest. "You should'a said so!"

" _I take it you've crossed paths with them before?"_

"They did what I thought was impossible. They screwed my whole _planet."_ The images flashed before his eyes, as crystal clear as when they happened: the stock market on his home world not just crashing but disappearing as thoroughly as if it were sucked into a black hole, riots in the streets….food disappearing as it became the new currency…reports of cannibalism…

…his father, and the gun….the blood… "Lady, I would _love_ the chance for some payback!"

He could never say how, but somehow he could sense a feral smile over the blank intercom. _"Then it looks like I've found my man."_

 _To be continued…_


	2. Chapter 2: Repairs

AlienX: A Gathering Storm, Chapter 2: Repairs.

As the weeks followed, Siraq learned more about his job. Most of it was fairly simple and straightforward, but some parts were a little difficult. One of the most difficult things he had to deal with was the "no questions" clause in his contract. Sometimes what was asked of him simply provoked his curiosity, without necessarily raising any red flags.

He'd managed to find several good buyers on the black market for the tech the captain supplied. He'd taken a look at this tech, so as to better sell it, and been impressed. It just didn't seem like something any sort of Earthly science could produce, in fact, it looked almost _organic_ in some strange way, but he understood its purpose. One device was a signal router that enhanced the strength of the signal many times over…without a corresponding increase in energy demand. He wondered…there were always rumors, of course, about secret laboratories out on the frontier, whose location was always a mystery. That was partly because such laboratories tended to play fast and loose with safety procedures—which was not an unforgivable sin in the eyes of the major corporations—and also because such labs tended to want what the companies considered an unreasonable amount of return for their work. This _was_ an unforgivable sin, in the eyes of the big companies, and so such laboratories were the subject of many "scavenger hunts." Perhaps Ripley had come across such a laboratory somewhere out on the frontier, and was basically fronting their merchandise for them. That would follow in line with her talk about a "profitable mission" in the near future.

Ripley….he wondered about her. He'd been assigned to the aft end of the ship, which was fully outfitted for human habitation. Ripley remained in the forward section, and had told him it had been modified to suit her needs. The partition between the two sections had been strengthened, and she had told him that they would communicate only over the intercom—never face to face. That had seemed somewhat odd to him

Idly, he'd looked up Warrant Officer Ellen Ripley from old company files, taking care, of course, to work through proxy servers. Hm. Not a bad looking woman. A bit older than he liked, but she radiated a kind of confidence he found appealing. But why the "no face to face" thing?

He'd speculated. Maybe…maybe the accident that had damaged the _Norstromo_ had somehow disfigured her, perhaps radically. The ship's automatic medic could repair almost all such damage, but detail work, such as restoring one's face…that required a different level of attention. So maybe she was…hiding away? Unwilling to have other humans look at her, as if she were a freak? He could see it. She wouldn't be the first. Or the last.

But somehow that mental picture just didn't jibe with the no-nonsense voice he heard over the intercom. He couldn't believe she'd be so concerned about her vanity that she avoided _all_ contact with anyone. On the other hand….

Humanity had not had a full-scale war for a very long time. Assorted "police actions," but nothing that got troops returning home in body bags by droves. And nothing that had been returning hordes of hideous, traumatically disfigured troops. During such a relatively calm time, humans had a tendency to forget the horror of having your father, mother, or lover come back to you without a face.

Siraq mused. He'd seen the darkness within the human soul on Orpheus, his home world. He knew what could happen to people, what people would let happen to them—and were altogether too eager to make happen to others. He was under no illusions.

….His father, the gun….the blood….

Yeah, it was entirely possible that Acting Captain Ellen Ripley just did not want anyone in this sheltered age to see her scars. He could buy that.

One of his gopher missions turned out to be a grocery shopping list. He glanced at the list on his pad, that she'd transmitted to him, then did a double take. "Cat food? And cat _litter_?"

" _Yes. I have a cat."_ She'd responded in a way that let him know he ought to have figured that out for himself. He mentally kicked himself a bit; he'd almost asked a question. And it was rapidly emerging that the First Law on board the _Norstromo_ was: no questions.

"O-kay. Uh, any special brand?"

" _Just good quality food, both canned and dry. The litter box is self-cleaning, but it will need litter and liners."_

"Sure thing." And off he'd gone. While at the grocery store, he'd realized something: Ripley had not requested any recharges for the ship's food synthesizers. Of course, with just one person, perhaps that hadn't been an issue before… He called back to the ship. "Hey, cap. I can get a good deal on some synth recharges…you want?"

There had been a pause. _"Now that you mention it, it couldn't hurt. But make sure you get the other items first."_

"You gotta eat, too, boss."

" _I'll get by. But there will be two of us, so, yes, it would be a wise investment."_ So he'd found some good, solidly packed canisters of basic protein, and brought them back to the ship.

Then came the night when he had to go out for a part that he couldn't find a replacement for in ship's stores, or in the parts he'd already bought. _"I thought you said you had everything?"_ The captain's voice sounded a little frustrated.

He could relate. Even with all his skill, it was taking time to get the ship space worthy again. Oh, sure, it could _fly_ now, but there were still certain features that needed to be installed before he felt totally safe inside it—with so much nothing all around. The communications array, for one thing.

"I _did_ have everything. But when I replaced this, this piece just came off in my hand." He held up the warped piece of metal, even though the video pickup was out. He somehow couldn't shake the notion that it wasn't, on her end. "It missed the scan earlier."

Silence. Then, _"But the ship can fly?"_

"She can. But until I get a replacement part here, I'll have to spot-weld these outer blast doors together, an' hope the strain of travel doesn't pull 'em apart. If so, we'd be looking at replacing the two new blast doors. Extra money, extra time."

" _Very well. But it's imperative I get this ship moving. I've every reason to think someone may jump my claim, so to speak. I'd rather that not happen. If it does, there goes both our profits."_

"Received and understood, boss." He got up from the floor. "I shouldn't be gone long."

The first clue that this might not've been the best time to go shopping came when a hand the size of an old-fashioned toaster reached out, grabbed him by the coat collar, and slammed him against the alley wall. There were two of them, both of them like wedges of solid muscle. "Boss wants his money." One was putting on a pair of electro-knucks. They both looked like they were gonna enjoy this a little too much.

He backed up and got as far away from them as possible. That wasn't very far; they'd chosen this alleyway precisely because there was no exit. "I don't have it. But, but look: I do have a job now. I can get the boss his money, I just gotta get paid first. But that's coming."

"Boss wants his money." Siraq wondered if the brute knew any other words to say.

"I told you, I don't have it yet! But I'll have it in two days! All of it. That's what your boss wants, isn't it? I just need a little more time, two days, that's all!"

The two bruisers exchanged the briefest of glances. Siraq wondered how they could see through those thick black eyeshades. "Boss said to come back with his money…or your fingers."

Siraq drew back a little more, spreading his hands to either side. "You injure me, I can't do my job, and I don't get paid. I don't get paid, your boss doesn't get his money. You wanna explain that to 'im?" _Can you even follow that train of logic, you brain-damaged gorilla?_

For just a second, they hesitated. Then, "Boss wants his money…or your fingers."

"You can't eat my fingers," he said, hitting the hidden switch that dropped the slug thrower into his palm, "but you can _eat this!"_ The shots exploded throughout the cramped little alleyway, as the hired muscle scrambled back, predators driven back by what had been their prey. "Hey, come back here! I haven't shot you in the _other_ ass yet!"

He hurriedly made his way back to the _Norstromo._ "Uh, Ripley? Maybe we need to think about relocating, like, right now?"

" _What have you done now?"_

"Er, you remember, the other day, we talked about some 'outstanding debts' on my part?"

" _From your condition, I'm supposing these debt collectors have extreme methods of collection?"_

"Too right."

" _Siraq…your problems really should not be my problems. But…."_ And here the voice paused momentarily, as Siraq could imagine Ripley thinking. _"You have been a good engineer, and have restrained what I know to be considerable curiosity on your part quite well._

" _You installed the afterboosters? They tested out?"_

"Uh, yeah, boss. The only thing really not working is…"

"… _the blast doors. You do have them welded shut, correct? Did you get the part you needed?"_

"Yeah, boss, but, it'll take me a full day to sweat it on…"

" _But we've got what we needed? Everything?"_

"Uh, yeah…"

Pause. Then, _"Get into your acceleration couch. Strap in."_

 _No questions,_ he reminded himself. It almost sounded like the boss was considering….

" _Space control, this is the Norstromo. We are requesting an emergency exit flight path. We've new orders and have to leave ASAP."_

" _Spaceship Norstromo, hold please." Then, "Emergency flight plan delayed. We're working on it, Norstromo, but it will take a while."_

" _This is the Norstromo. What is delaying us? Lives could be at stake."_

" _We read and copy. Flight plan delayed, Norstromo. Just hold on."_

There was a faint change in the static as the transmission to the tower was cut. Then Ripley's voice came back to him, over the intercom, calmly, as always. _"Mr. Siraq, I believe your creditors have just upped the ante."_

The control tower: "Yes, sir, the ship's just sitting there, no clearance. What? No sir, no sign of any weapons. Yes, sir, we're cutting the feed from the net. They're blind." Even as the tower controller spoke, several groundcars growled their way into spaceport, heading for the _Norstromo._ Ground crews, alerted by tower control, scrambled hurriedly out of the way. Boss Cargo was definitely not too good to cut his money directly out of you, right out in plain sight, and they knew it. The cops, you said? He _owned_ 'em.

The groundcars could best, most stealthily, approach from the rearward most end of the ship, by means of a maintenance path, right underneath the thrusters. They halted there, as the men inside armed themselves, preparing to cut their way into the ship.

Suddenly the ship's thrusters came alive, spraying fusing hydrogen in a solar temperature blast directly into the limousines, as the _Norstromo_ leaped into the sky, angling crazily, almost as if whoever was at the controls was trying to dodge anti-spacecraft artillery. _"Norstromo!_ _Norstromo_ _! What the_ _hell_ _do you think you're doing!"_

 _If you haven't figured it out by now, you must'a flunked your IQ test,_ thought Siraq. Ripley must be one solid mass of guts: not only was she flying blind with no pre-established flight plan, but she'd just incinerated a couple of cars full of enforcers for the local mob. She'd essentially just declared open war on one of the most powerful crime syndicates on the planet.

And she seemed to be completely out of fucks to give. He grinned through the acceleration pressure. _Now that's_ _my_ _kinda woman!_

The _Norstromo_ continued to accelerate upward and outward. If the captain was expecting any sort of surface to space ordnance, it never came, and the ship punched its own way out of the atmosphere, without any help from the ground. Siraq broke out in a cold sweat, just thinking about how narrowly they must've missed colliding with either another ship or a navigation satellite. And all by "seat of the pants" flying. The captain must have either superhuman reflexes or the devil's own luck.

Or both.

…..

On board the Displaced ship: Ellen Ripley met with !Q'ell, the jellyfish-like creature that had greeted her when she first came to, there in the strange vessel's airlock. There was only one chair in what she guessed was the small meeting room; the Displaced representative not needing one. "You said you wanted to see me?"

!Q'ell used one of the metallic appendages sprouting from its conveyance to turn a dial on the floor. Again, a rising whine told of the device establishing some sort of communication link directly with her nervous system. _I did. You have told us of this 'company' of yours, this Weyland-Yutani, and how they wish to bring back one or more of the_ *again, that untranslatable but hideously unpleasant sensation* _for their research purposes. Why do you suppose they wish to do this?_

"Why? I don't know. Bioweapons, maybe? Or maybe just general knowledge. I mean, I couldn't tell you. But two things I can tell you: if they were that insistent upon bringing one of those monsters back, then, a.) they had some idea they were there, and some previous knowledge about them in the first place, and b.) they figured they could make a profit from them, somehow. And they were willing to sacrifice the entire crew to do it."

Another rising hum. _It seems to be a truism: Where profit is maximized, the value of life becomes minimalized. Yours is not the first species to venture down that path._

 _What I have asked you to come here about is this: what do you plan to do now?_

"Excuse me? What do you mean?"

 _You do know your ship left. Presumably, the *_ untranslatable, unpleasant* _was inside. What do you plan to do now?_

Ripley thought, running her fingers through her short hair. "What are my options? I mean, I don't really know what I _can_ do. Worst case scenario—and I see no reason to suppose anything else—that horror is heading for a human world, to, to batten itself on the people there, and swarm all over the whole planet. And here I don't even have a ship! I mean, what _can_ I do?"

A pause. Then, _Have you then given up?_

 _Okay,_ thought Ripley, every sense she had was telling her that was the wrong thing to say. "Of course not. But I have to find some way of, of following this thing, fighting it." She bit her lip. "I can't just swim after it."

 _Will you accept my perspective, on this matter?_

"Huh? Sure."

 _What this matter will come down to is a war of determination. Which of you is the most determined? You? Or it?_

 _To be continued…._


	3. Chapter 3: Honest Work

AlienX: A Gathering Storm, Chapter 3: Honest Work

…

 _I don't own any part of the "Alien" franchise._

…

In cryosleep you don't dream, or at least, you aren't supposed to. Yet Siraq could swear that, upon being awakened by the ship's computer, that he could remember something in between the time when he climbed into the 'sleep chamber and now. Something that seemed very important to him.

Something about his father, maybe? That was possible. He'd been so young when the….when what happened had happened.

But it seemed like there was something else. Something important. Something in the here and now.

He saw from the readouts that they were approaching a celestial body. By now, he knew better than to ask Acting Captain Ripley where they were headed or what they were doing here. If she wanted him to know, she'd tell him.

But some questions he was allowed to ask, and sometimes the phrasing made all the difference. "Boss? Are you gonna be wantin' that seal put on the blast doors this go-round?"

There was a crackle. Siraq had never actually seen his employer; all his communication with her had been done over the intercom, voice only. And while Ripley had said the video pickups were damaged in the accident that the _Norstromo_ had suffered, Siraq himself had his doubts. For one thing, there had been too many dropped comments indicating that Ripley could see _him_ just fine…and it had always been Siraq's experience that modern vid pickups either worked both ways or not at all.

Unless, of course, you programmed them otherwise.

 _Was_ he dealing with former Warrant Officer, now Captain Ellen Ripley? Or could this be an imposter? Makng sure to hide his searches, he called up voice analysis of the voice on file, comparing it to the one coming in over the 'com. It checked out. So…that was that?

So Ripley didn't want to be seen? He guessed it was none of his business.

" _Not at this landing. I have to resupply some items for sale, and the atmosphere here is not one conducive to good health. I will need you to move some items into cold storage, however. But first, I have to go and gather some things."_

"Need some help?"

" _I can manage. This is no place to remain for long, anyway; in fact, your orders are not to leave the ship. The atmosphere is very deadly, and there are other considerations as well. I know exactly where to go and just precisely what to bring back; doing so will minimize any risk to the ship or its personnel. I_ _will_ _need you to stand by with the loader and load some items into cold storage. And you must do so quickly; we need to get somewhere where you_ _can_ _make those repairs."_

"Sure thing, boss. I'll be sittin' right by the window, watching for y-*"

" _Ah, about that. There are certain electromagnetic influences here that are hazardous to the optic nerves. So I plan to derezz the viewing ports, turn them all opaque. I'll contact you when I've returned with the bio-packages, leaving them right at the edge of the loading ramp. You just be ready to load them. Got it?"_

O-kay. "Got it, boss." More of Ellen Ripley's apparent allergy to being seen? But why? He couldn't understand it. No matter how badly disfigured she might be, it would be from a distance, she'd be in a space suit, and—if his first glimpses of this world were accurate—in an atmosphere more like a driving snowstorm; in other words, not conducive to good vision anyway. But okay. His not to question why.

He sat at the small table, nibbling on some pepper jack cheese and playing Solitaire. Idly he wondered: he'd not seen any evidence of any mice on board the _Norstromo_ , quite unlike many similar ships. But then, he remembered, Ripley had said she had a cat.

Of course, he'd seen no evidence of the cat, either. That is, aside from the supplies she'd had him buy back on Cargo's world. Odd; he'd have thought, for the cat to be an effective mouser, it would have to be allowed to roam all over the ship, but Ripley kept it in the forward section, with herself. Still more strangeness. He shrugged and returned to his game.

" _Mr. Siraq? The biopackages are waiting at the foot of the ramp. Get the loader and load them into the cold-storage chamber. And you must hurry. Never mind why;remember: no questions. Just do it._

" _Also, should I, for any reason, tell you to drop what you are doing and return to the ship, do so immediately. Do not hesitate. Save the loader if you can, but by all means, get yourself back to the ship."_ It was as if she could see the furrows on his brow. _"We may not be the only ones here."_

… _._

On board the Displaced ship: Ellen Ripley was walking down the corridor (a corridor curiously designed, it seemed, for beings who didn't always have to traverse just by means of the floor), when she heard a sort of a _chuff_ sound from behind her, not a menacing sound. More like something clearing its throat.

Instantly, she turned, halfway dropping into combat crouch out of sheer force of habit, a habit acquired by hard experience on the old _Norstromo_. But the being behind her was no xenomorph, but one of the creatures who'd greeted her when she first found herself on board this ship. It was G'Ten T'shaark, one of a race of people who resembled Earthly centaurs, providing the human half was replaced with something more akin to a fur-covered gorilla. And the head was…different.

G'Ten T'shaark held up a seven-fingered hand, apparently a universal gesture of peace. It was holding a tablet, which it offered her. Being outside the various translating rooms, the disparate races making up the Displaced here on board had to make do with communicating via automatic translation on their tablets. _I understand,_ read the tablet, _that you seek a means of following this monster who slew your friends._ Ripley knew she'd never be able to explain the various and complex relationships between her and her old crewmates…no, they hadn't all been _friends_ , exactly, but there was no reason to go into that right now.

She took the tablet and wrote back, _Yes I do. Do you have any ideas?_ She waited for the words to translate, then handed the tablet back to the alien.

 _Perhaps. I know of several others here who also wish vengeance upon the destroyers of worlds. Would you meet with us?_

 _Of course I would. Where?_

 _In the meeting room down one level. It has a translator, too. We will gather there within one_ (translation: seventy minutes).

 _I will be there._

…..

Driving the loader down the ramp, Siraq mused over Ripley's last words. He'd understood it, when Ripley had spoken earlier, about claim jumpers. Out on the fringe worlds, that was always a possibility; oftentimes outlaw ships landed, grabbed everything grabbable, and roared off again, into the tartarian night. Of course, no one would see anything amiss in the hastily ground-off official seals and markings. No doubt pirates somehow captured a colonial ship and, being the good little sociopaths they were, had intentionally disfigured their captured ships, just so's not to confuse anybody. Uh huh. Riiiiiiggghhhhht.

But the way it had been phrased….

Was there someone else _living_ here? He didn't see how. The atmosphere was a toxic soup, and even during his short time there, he could feel tiny tremors in the ground. There was no vegetation, at least, none he could see. A frozen ping pong ball would have a more inviting atmosphere.

 _Must_ be claimjumpers.

At the bottom of the ramp were seven bluish-gray cones or pods, large objects, each about two and a half feet across and approximately four feet tall. Something about them set off alarms in Siraq's brain. _"Just load these packages into cold storage. And hurry."_

He worked quickly, wanting to be gone from this desolate place. "Uh, boss? This isn't a question, you understand, but I have always been given to understand the importation of alien life-forms was strictly prohibited." The pods were obviously organic in nature.

" _Remember, no questions. But, just to put your mind at ease, no less that Weyland-Yutani themselves lobbied to have that law stricken from the books years ago. Are you familiar with corporate tactics regarding potential ranching worlds?"_

"Er, can't say it's ever come to my attention…."

" _They take a world as Earth-normal as possible, but without a large predator base. Then they introduce rynth calves into that world, and hold off on actual colonization. The rynth, out of their natural element of checks and balances, quickly overpopulate, eating away at every scrap of vegetation on the planet. When the herds have reached the critical level, then they send in the first few colonial ranchers, those who, it should go without saying, can pay, and pay well, for the privilege of being first, to establish the first ranches. And the slaughter begins._

" _Eventually, the herds—and the ranchers—reach equilibrium, but not before those lucky few first comers have built themselves some nice little ridiculously profitable rynth empires. Of which, Weyland-Yutani gets a generous percentage, needless to say. All based on_ _deliberately_ _throwing the entire ecosystem out of whack."_

He grinned even as he loaded the last of the pods. "Sounds like you disapprove, cap. Wouldn't you like to get dirty rotten filthy stinking rich herding rynth?"

" _I neither approve nor disapprove. I simply tell you how it is. Every adjustment, even small ones, to any ecosystem, disturbs that ecosystem. The only question is_ _how_ _are you going to disturb it, and why. And, most importantly who will ultimately benefit?_

" _I admire how you have adhered to my 'no questions' rule, so I will tell you this: these biopackages are part of a genetically advanced geoforming effort, an effort to transform one type of ecology to a better, more suitable one. But their placement is critical, and not all worlds will do. Here, for example. This world would need a serious upgrade before it would even have an ecosystem anybody could work with. So I'm planning on taking these to worlds better suited, with, hopefully, better results."_

He shrugged, locking down the last of the pods. "Sounds A-okay to me, boss. Are we ready to roll, or do I have time to sweat that brace on?"

" _Not here. The environment's too hostile._

" _Besides. Jones doesn't like it here."_

 _..._

 _To be continued._

…


	4. Chapter 4: Planting

AlienX: A Gathering Storm, Chapter 4: Planting

….

 _I don't own any part of the Alien/Predator franchise. Of course._

… _.._

Chapter 4: Planting

LV-291: Referred to by the locals as "Haskel's Folly." Siraq wiped his brow, putting down one tool, and picking up another. The part that would complete the repair of the _Norstromo_ was making him earn his wages. He'd long ago run out of every curse word he knew, and was having to make up some new ones.

" _Really, Mr. Siraq. Your language is of course no interest to me, but I fail to see how cuss words will help you in accomplishing your task."_ Ripley's voice, over the intercom, sounded amused. Maybe she'd been watching him? He often got the impression she was.

"I don't use cuss words," he told the Acting Captain of the _Norstromo_ , "I use _sentence enhancers._ "

For a brief moment, he was certain he was about to hear a sound he'd never heard before: Ellen Ripley's laughter over the 'com. But no. However, the amusement did not leave her voice. _"Well, if it helps you, I certainly have no objection. But once you finish, I've another shopping list for you."_

"Okay, boss. But I gotta warn ya: this planet doesn't seem to have much in the way of a back-alley market. Too few people; no plausible deniability."

" _That's to be expected. But this world does have one thing I need."_

"I suppose I'll have to wait until I actually get our grocery list?"

" _Well, as you say, part of it is a simple grocery list. However, I do need you to make room for…some nonperishable items. You'll see."_

He took a breather, showered up (all the while wondering if Ripley was watching him in the shower, too? Well, so what? If it made her happy…), and attended to the grocery list.

The synth recharges he'd gotten on the last planetfall were holding up nicely, as were the personal supplies. He got a couple of extra canisters anyway. Cat food….it still struck him as odd, somehow, that Ripley had a cat. He didn't know why; it just did.

But some things were needed. He had to get machine parts, and lay in stores of canned foods, in case the food synthesizers gave out. The middle of space was no time to be without food of some nature. Besides, on some worlds, canned goods could be used as currency.

He understood that on an altogether too personal a level. His own home world of Orpheus had suffered horribly when Weyland-Yutani had basically pulled the plug on the entire economy. In the ensuing catastrophe (he wasn't sure if that was a strong enough word), two things had surfaced as the new currency: food and sex. Sex for food, and food for sex.

… _his father, the gun…the blood…_

He put a hand to his head. Would he ever forget that horrible moment? He didn't think so.

And he was truthful enough to admit to himself that part of him didn't want to. It was part of what made him who he was.

Hate can give you just as much reason to live as love can.

Once his "grocery list" was taken care of, Ripley sent him the second part of it, and he understood why she'd been unwilling to discuss the matter over the intercom. "Uh, boss? I don't even know if these kinds of weapons are available here. I mean, this is some pretty heavy ordnance we're talkin' about."

" _Do what you can. We'll be making planetfall on several more technologically sophisticated worlds; perhaps what you don't find here, we can locate there."_

…

On board the Displaced ship, Ellen Ripley was meeting with several other of the alien races who comprised the crew/passengers of the ship. G'Ten T'Shaark reached down and turned the knob on the floor that would activate the neural interface to serve as a translator. With so many different kinds of creatures here, it had to be calibrated just so, and that took someone who had had a lot of practice. G'Ten T'Shaark expertly dialed in the correct numbers.

Ripley felt the by-now familiar mild headache as the field took hold. Now, their sub vocal communications would be audible and understandable to each other. {{My name is Ripley, Ellen Ripley. G'Ten T'Shaark,}} using his full name, as an honorific, {{has told me we've some things in common. Besides, of course, the obvious.}}

One thing Ripley had to admit about her new crewmates: there was no quarreling, no infighting, no shipboard politics. Regardless of what sort of beings they were, or had been, or what worlds they'd come from, each and every one there was united on at least one major point.

Shared vengeance can be a terrific motivator.

 _{{'Is true. To find the *untranslatable, but obscene* our goal is. Between us, a ship we have.}}_ The alien who was "speaking" resembled a deep-sea sponge, with tentacular legs sprouting from its underside, and inset cybernetic links crisscrossing its top layer. They looked to be permanent implants. _{{Not ours, it was. Original owners deceased. Left ship to Honorable G'Ten T'Shaark with understanding: use to destroy. Excellent ship; many weapons, we have installed.}}_

Ripley turned to the centauroid alien. {{Tell me about this ship. And, also, do we have enough volunteers to crew and operate it?}}

But before G'Ten T'Shaark could "speak," the other alien broke in. _{{Not a problem is. Problem is,_ too many _volunteers. Weapons we will bring. Lead us, you will?}}_

Not a lamb in the bunch, thought Ripley. The last thing these folk needed was a shepherd. _Sheep_ need a shepherd.

Wolves need a _leader_. For the first time since the _Norstromo,_ Ellen Ripley smiled. It was a smile any wolf would have recognized.

…

Boss Cargo sat in his office on the world recently vacated by the _Norstromo._ He wasn't a pleasant man in the best of times, and these were certainly not the best of times right now. "You mean, you clowns didn't even get off a _shot?_ " He was talking to the two thugs who'd accosted Siraq in the alleyway.

"We didn't know he had a gun, boss! W-we were about to, to do what you said, bring you his fingers—he just got the drop on us!"

"Let me see if I have this straight. You went after a guy who owes me ten thousand credits, a street rat from the first, and _it never occurred to you he might be armed?"_

"Uh…"

"Never mind." Boss Cargo sat back in his high-backed chair, taking the nic stick out of his mouth. He smiled. "Hey, I completely understand. But, I'm gonna haveta take certain steps. I'm afraid I'm gonna haveta disarm you two." He waved at some more of his henchmen behind the two sweating thugs.

"Uh, S-sure, boss," began one, with a bit of relief, as they both carefully drew their weapons and placed them on his desk. If that was all….

Boss Cargo looked at them the way some people would look at a particularly slow child. "I wasn't talking about your _guns._ "

…

The ship the Displaced had been bequeathed proved to have begun life as a luxury yacht…if your definition of "luxury" was broad enough. Ripley could understand why it had not been used before; it had needed some remodeling, and yes, reconfiguring before it would be suitable for their purposes. That remodeling had begun while the original owners had been alive, but with the Displaced having to move from world to world, having no one particular planet upon which to do the work, it had proceeded slowly. Ripley had no idea what the original owners had looked like, but all things considered, that was beginning to make less and less difference to her. Strange shapes, strange bioforms? She no longer saw any real difference between herself—and humans in general—and the populace of the Displaced starship. Indeed, she found herself respecting them more; her own people had put a warbot on the _Norstromo,_ and had tried to kill them all. As far as Ellen Ripley was concerned, Ash's programmers had abdicated their humanity. And the humanity they'd abdicated, the Displaced had earned.

Strange, she thought, with a wry smile. There are many different types of _humans._

 _{{And what will we call our ship, Ripley Ellen Ripley? It is the custom of my people to name our weapons of war.}}_ G'Ten T'Shaark had overseen the last of the modifications, and the ship was good to go.

{{I can think of one name that I think we can all agree upon. Indeed, perhaps the only appropriate one.}} She paused for effect; the others watched her eagerly. She turned to the image of the ship on the view port. It had been heavily customized, with weapons ports added, and its profile streamlined in a more _aggressive_ style, as sleek and deadly as a shark. {{I christen thee, the United Space Ship _Vendetta._ }}

…

LV-306: "Cooper's Town." Siraq was having better luck here in the weapons department. In the back of his mind, he wondered what Ripley wanted with all this ordnance. She hadn't asked him for any sorts of ship-mounted guns; that would have raised a red flag in his mind. No, all this was standard, high-grade colonial marine-type shoulder arms. Pulse cannon, slug throwers, a flamer or two (it was surprising what was actually legal to own), and a few others. She'd instructed him to pay special attention to any sort of plasma cannon, but so far, he'd not been able to locate any of those, at least not on these backwater worlds. But Ripley was amassing a substantial amount of firepower. Was she planning on supplying troops somewhere?

 _{{Alright, Mr. Siraq, I believe it's time for us to be about our primary mission, the geoforming of suitable worlds. You might want to get into the cryosleep chamber; this could be a somewhat lengthy journey.}}_

He knew better, by now, than to ask just _how_ lengthy, but did as he was told….

His pod opened, and he stumbled out, his body fighting off the effects of the cryo chamber, barely making it into the shower, letting the warm water bring some semblance of life back into his limbs. He knew cryosleep was the only way (at least, so far) of traversing the vast stretches of space within a time frame comfortable to humans; yeah, bring a ship up to full speed, and you _could_ , conceivably, wait out the voyage, but that could still take years, during which you'd consume resources best reserved, and go crazy from boredom. So the discomfort of cryosleep awakening was an acceptable trade-off.

He went to the nearest viewport. The world they were currently in orbit around looked to be an Earth-normal world, lacking polar caps, however. "This it, boss?"

" _Yes. I'll make landing. You select five of the biopackages and be prepared to unload them."_

"Right." The strangely organic seeming "biopackages" they acquired on LV-426 were in cold storage. He decanted five of them and secured them on the loader.

The weather was early spring, and the first green shoots of leaves were making an appearance. But the air smelled odd, making him cough and causing his eyes to water, and the terrain was more uneven than he expected. He got the impression that this region was not tectonically stable. And, now that he noticed it, the new shoots weren't exactly green…more of a purplish-green. He drove the loader down the ramp. "Okay, boss. You got a special place you want these?"

" _Yes. Weyland-Yutani has just recently seeded this world with rynth. There's a major rynth trail only two hundred meters towards the northwest. That will do nicely. Place the biopackages there, in that vicinity, twenty meters apart, approximately."_

"You got it." The loader growled and grumbled over the uneven terrain, its contents shaking from the irregularities in the ground. He wondered if he should have warmed them up some more…but Ripley had not said to, so….

Twenty meters apart. The pods nestled nicely into the sides of the trail, and he made sure they were surrounded by supporting rocks, so as not to turn over, should a temblor strike. Okay. Well and good.

" _An excellent job, Mr. Siraq. You may return to the ship now. Once the biopackages have warmed sufficiently, they will begin their work."_

"Boss?" He was hesitant. "It, uh, almost seems like you're _helping_ W-Y. I mean, geoforming this world, tweaking it to be better…? Understand, I'm not asking any questions…."

" _But in a sense you are, Mr. Siraq. I will say this: I am by no means helping Weyland-Yutani. The modifications the biopackages will make will definitely impact the overkill of the rynth population. But these modifications will be of great benefit to generations yet to come._

" _They will cut deeply into Weyland-Yutani's projected profits for this world. But somehow, I can't work up much sympathy for them. Can you?"_

…

The USS _Vendetta_ approached Boss Cargo's world cautiously. The _Norstromo's_ trail led here; there was every reason to assume the planet was a swarm with xenomorphs by now.

Instead, Ripley was picking up standard ground to space communications. There was no mention made of any monsters on the loose. But there was mention of the _Norstromo._

Ripley took the communications network, setting it for the standard frequencies. Something, some sixth sense, told her to go incognito, so she didn't cut in the video pickup. "This is Lieutenant Commander Baker, of the starship _Vendetta._ We are requesting clearance to land."

" _Vendetta? We don't have a listing for a ship of that name. Send us your registration ID."_ Ripley complied, having already forged documents sufficient to fool all but the most suspicious of authorities. _"Yes, the_ Vendetta _. One of the new class of deep space explorers. Well, you'll have to wait for landing clearance. We've had a bit of a problem with a previous ship, and the landing area is damaged."_

"Damaged? How?"

" _Damn fool of a captain took off right from the ground, thrusters wide open. You can imagine what that did. We'll be repairing that for months to come."_

Another sixth sense. "Ground, what ship did this?"

" _The_ Norstromo, _damn it to the lowest pits of hell. The captain must be a certifiable maniac."_

"Er, who, who was the captain of the _Norstromo?_ "

" _Someone named Ellen Ripley."_

Very, very few times in Ripley's life had she been at a loss for words. But this was one of them. "Ground. Are…are you sure as to the identity of this…acting captain?"

" _As sure as I can be without a visual or retina pattern. The voice analysis checked out to twelve decimals. Visual pickups were damaged, so we were told. She came here, hired a mechanic, and then, for no apparent reason, blasted off right from the middle of the air field. There's a hole there you could drive a car through."_

"I…see. Thank you for this information. Do you have any idea where the _Norstromo_ might have gone?"

" _None. Of course, the captain didn't file anything like a flight plan."_ The man's frustration was evident in his voice. Ripley understood what was going on: very probably, this was the controller who'd been on duty when the _Norstromo_ had made its unscheduled departure, and was catching high holy hell for not being precognitive. And nobody wanted to hear any "excuses." So he relished the chance to vent a little to somebody. In this case, his venting was being most informative.

"Ground, listen. Forget about our landing protocol. Do you have any information, even vague suppositions, as to where the _Norstromo_ could have gone? Do you know which way it headed? It doesn't have to be anything concrete or official; personal opinions will be just as good."

There was a pause. Then, _"If I had to guess—and that's all it is, mind you—they left in the direction of Haskel's Folly. We don't have any reliable communications out that way, however. So it's only a guess."_

"Thank you, ground. By the way, what is your name?"

Pause. Then, _"I'm not supposed to give all that out, and I've said more than I should've said already, but what the hell. I'm Herbert. Herbert Wise. Except that I haven't been, lately."_

Ripley dropped her voice a bit. "Now, don't go being too hard on yourself. From what you said, there was nothing you could do. Others may be blaming you, but that's what it is: simple blaming." She dropped her voice further, to a husky tone. _I could've made good money as a phone-sex worker._ "And I'm Helen. Helen Baker." Ripley knew how the young man on the other end of the communications link must be feeling. Simple validation would go a long way. And a husky, sexy voice of an interested female….even farther. Although it was hardly feasible here, in these circumstances, Ripley wouldn't have had any problems with taking the young man to bed. It sounded like he needed it. "So…Haskel's Folly, you say?"

 _To be continued…_


	5. Chapter 5: Hunters and Hunted

AlienX: A Gathering Storm: Chapter 5: Hunters and Hunted

….

 _I don't own the Alien/Predator franchise. Wish I did._

… _._

Chapter 5: Hunters and Hunted

Gren didn't think he'd _ever_ run this fast or this far in his life. He felt like his heart was about to burst.

But that was better than what awaited him if he stopped.

There was a rocky outcropping just ahead. He dodged behind it, got his back against it, and stopped, his sides heaving, trying to catch his breath.

What had happened had come out of nowhere. There was no warning, nothing to indicate that things were not as they should be…and then they lost communication with the western lookout. The team member detailed to go see why had failed to report. Then the northern monitor station had fallen silent….

The rest of them, alarmed, (were they under attack? But from who? From what?) had immediately fled into the main Quonset hall, with the officers arming themselves. They didn't have much in the way of weapons; nobody had expected to have any use for weapons out here on the fringe of human space.

They'd tried to take stock of their situation. "We've got to get to the communications shack. Who's here who can operate the radio?" Andre, Dmitri, and Gren had raised their hands. "Okay, right now, you guys just became our most valuable commodity. The rest of you, get something. Guns, knives, sharp sticks for all I care, but grab whatever you can. We gotta make sure these guys live long enough to call for help."

"What, exactly, is going on here, Robert?" Missy Greenwood, one of the geologists, was trying to keep the panic out of her voice.

"We don't know. I do know our people's transponders went out. They don't do that for any reason except one. And I checked the security cams…nothing. I can see where our people went….and I can see a lot of blood. I think that speaks for itself."

"Is it pirates, you think?"

"I don't know what to think. I only know we can't hold out here forever. And-*" At that exact moment, the lights had gone out. In the darkness, Gren could hear the screams of panicking humans….

….And then another kind of scream, very different from the fear-provoked ones: this one came from someone mortally wounded. Gren had never heard anyone die before, but there are some things one just knows. In the dark, he'd heard more. He knew he couldn't help them.

And so he ran. He'd managed to grab a rifle, a slug thrower. Now, in what he dearly hoped was the relative safety of the outcropping, he checked the rifle. Full clip, fifty rounds. Good. Now how to operate this thing?

Hey, _he_ didn't know! He was a _seismologist_!

There was a handle protruding from one side. He grabbed it and pulled it back, just like they did in the tri-D shows. The spring proved to be stronger than he expected, but he managed to rack the slide and feed a round into the chamber. Safety, off, check.

The last image he'd received when he bolted out of the Quonset hall was his superior, Robberts, the team leader, seemingly impaled on empty air, the life draining from his eyes even as Gren watched.

And so he ran. He didn't know what else to do. Make for the communications shack? Well, he could try. Maybe with a functioning gun he wouldn't be such easy prey….but who or what was attacking them? Why couldn't he see them?

Could they be invisible?

The small shack that housed the communications equipment lay on the eastern side of the encampment. He scrambled to the door, halfway falling and almost losing his gun. He regained his feet, and held the weapon ready, in a death grip. The door should be unlocked; there had never been any reason to lock it.

But just as he reached for the door handle, he felt a sickening pain shoot through his midsection, felt himself being lifted off the ground, the rifle dropping from his suddenly nerveless fingers. He thrashed and struggled, with his last remaining strength, to turn around, to at least see what had attacked them….but failed.

…..

LV-426: Siraq was loading yet another cargo-hold full of the strange biopackages. Ripley had given him very detailed instructions on how to handle them: as long as they were kept cold, they would remain viable. But she had once again stressed that, should she tell him, he must return to the ship, forgetting everything he was doing. _Claim jumpers?_ He'd wondered. But who? And how would they know anything about this forbidding planet?

How did Ripley?

"Okay, boss. That's the last of them."

" _Excellent, Mr. Siraq. Now get cleaned up, and prepare for liftoff. We've three planets on our schedule. You'll need to get ready for the cryosleep chamber."_

He sighed. He was coming to hate that cryosleep pod, but he knew there wasn't much point in that. Grumbling, he cleaned and showered up. Not for the first time, he half-fantasized about showering with Ripley, then cursed himself for excessive testosterone levels. _I should take a pill for that._ While it might be normal for spacers away from humanity for extended periods of time to begin to eye their female shipmates, somehow he didn't think he'd be able to get it up for Ripley, even if she did choose to join him here in the shower. She was just a bit too intimidating for his taste.

And the whole notion that _she'd_ seduce _him_ …yeah, right. That'd happen.

He got dressed, ate a sparse meal. Cryosleep didn't completely shut down the body's functions, and he didn't want to wake up constipated. _That_ would be a _real_ buzzkill.

The planet: Renfield. Renfield was one of those peculiar planets that the initial surveys had named "barely habitable." This was due to its extremely slow rotation, giving the planet approximately six months of day and approximately six months of night. It was impossible to grow enough in that short a period of time to last the entire "night," at least not for any sizeable population, so the people on Renfield had become heavily dependent on hydroponics and aquaculture. This made it a major node for trade, especially for high end technology. The people literally needed it to survive.

Also, due to the unusual rotation, Renfield was subject to some violent, spectacular, and often lethal electrical storms. So a major portion of the populace lived underground, with only a tiny percentage braving the hostile surface.

This time Siraq's shopping list included energy transforming equipment, as well as various weaponry. And, for the first time, she'd included ship-mounted cannon. "Uh, boss?"

" _Remember, Mr. Siraq: no questions."_

"Actually, what I was wondering was whether or not I could install some of this stuff. You need a shipyard, with a full scaffolding, for at least three of these."

" _I understand, Mr. Siraq, but only a few of these cannon are actually for the_ Norstromo _. The others are for…trade."_

Trade? With who?

Pirates?

Siraq _really_ didn't want to turn pirate. So far, it looked like the worse thing Ripley could be accused of was gun-running. But if he mounted, say, the C-plus cannon, and it was used against helpless civilians….

There was a limit to what he'd do. "Boss…."

" _I'm sure you've noted that the ones earmarked for this ship are primarily defensive weaponry. No guided missiles or torpedoes. If we can run, we will._

" _The force-screen projector is also defensive. We could easily have need of it, as we may come under fire. But not necessarily from who you think."_

"Who'm I thinking?"

There was a pause. Then, _"Mr. Siraq, I'm curious. Do you truly believe that humans are the only intelligent beings in the universe?"_

….

The United Space Ship _Vendetta:_ Ripley was gathering what information she had.

They hadn't made planetfall at the last world, Boss Cargo's world, but instead headed for the quarry's last (estimated) destination: Haskell's Folly. There, again posing as "Captain Helen Baker," Ripley made some inquiries to see if the _Norstromo_ had been through here.

It had, and, once again, there was the (somewhat unnerving) lack of reports regarding any monsters. Instead the ship had simply docked, made some routine, albeit extensive, repairs, traded some items, sold a few unusual bits and pieces of exotic tech—and left, this time without causing any trouble.

Ripley was beginning to wonder just what was going on here. Had some human agency somehow gotten control of the—

Ashe!

Of course! It was the only possible explanation! Somehow, the android had not been as destroyed as she'd thought, and it had revived and/or repaired itself to the point where it managed to regain control of the ship. But what had it done with the alien?

Could it have somehow overpowered the thing, locked it away in cryosleep? As far as Ripley knew, cryosleep would probably work just as well on the xenomorph as on any other life form…but why hadn't the android made its way straight for Earth, and Weyland-Yutani? Hadn't that been the idea, all along?

But if this was the case, it made matters all the worse…because it meant the ship's ultimate destination was, in fact, the corporate headquarters of the very human monsters who'd sent its crew out to be slaughtered. With a live alien on board.

…..

"Information, got it, boss. Would I be outta line if I asked what _kind_ of information I'm lookin' for?" The _Norstromo_ had made planetfall on a small worldlet far off the beaten path, near the fringe. The smallish landing area had been barely big enough for the ship, and Siraq could see Quonset huts right up against the fence bordering it. It looked quite lovely, pastoral, even. The more he looked at it, however, the more it screamed, "danger!" at him.

For one thing, the settlement just outside the landing strip was too quiet, too still. Even though he looked and looked, he couldn't see any sign of movement, no sign of the humans who should be living here. So where were they? Shouldn't there be, at least, a comm shack? Somebody out watching the gate? A birdwatcher, or something? And why so quiet?

" _It's a little hard to explain, but I'm, I suppose you'd say, getting a 'bad vibe' from the reports about this place. Up until a ten-day period ago, it was sending and receiving the standard radio traffic. Then, it just ceased. Suddenly."_

"Ah. I…see. And you want me to….go stick my head into that lion's mouth? Do I get combat pay?"

" _I'm not asking you to sacrifice yourself, or take foolish chances. Take one of the rifles from the storage facility…the one with the largest capacity. I don't want anything more than an in-and-out. But if there are corpses there—and that's quite likely—it's vital I know what condition they're in."_

"Uh, boss? I got a real bad feeling about this…I mean, I'm no marine, just a street rat." He checked the gun he'd selected—one hundred rounds, good, two extra helical magazines—and pushed the switch that lowered the ramp. The air smelled fresh, after the sterility of the shipboard air, and he thought he could detect the delicate perfume of flowering plants.

Another sniff brought another sort of smell altogether: blood.

" _I wouldn't expect you to go into this sort of situation alone, Mr. Siraq. So you'll have someone to watch your back."_

"Boss?"

" _I'm sending Jones out to accompany you."_

Siraq was still wondering whether or not Ripley was serious or not, when another loading ramp descended, and a medium sized yellow tabby cat walked calmly down to the end. Sat there, looking at Siraq with that peculiar intelligent and disdainful look cats are justifiably famous for.

Siraq walked over to the cat. "So you're Jones. We finally meet." The cat continued to look at him, then glanced off down towards the township. _Charmed, I'm sure_. _Now, to business?_

"Boss? I'm not questioning your judgment here…"

" _Good."_

"I'm questioning your _sanity._ "

There was the briefest hint of a sigh. _"It's really very simple. Jones,"_ said the voice over the 'com, _"has senses you don't, and to a heightened degree. If he gets spooked, get back to the ship. I'll keep the ship in a state of readiness. Remember, all I need from you is the basics: if there are dead here—and I'm almost sure there are—what state are they in? Is your body cam on and working?"_

"Uh, yeah." He switched it on. Oh, well. A job's a job. He'd never intended to die of old age anyway. Hey, it beat getting brutalized by Boss Cargo's thugs. He racked the slide on the rifle, feeding a high-velocity armor-piercing round into the chamber, then shouldered it. Stood back and nodded to Jones. "After you?"

The cat just continued to glare at him, not even bothering to narrow its eyes. "Oh. Right. Sorry." He turned and led the way into the encampment, the tabby cat following him. _I just apologized to a cat._

 _Well, I guess I at least know who's in charge of this expedition._

It didn't take him long to find what was left of the first body. The scavengers had already been at it. He couldn't tell what had killed it. Hell, he couldn't even tell if it was a man or a woman. But he didn't see a head anywhere.

By now, his heart rate was beginning to accelerate to an even greater degree. He noticed Jones crouched down, moving from cover to cover, keeping his eyes and ears open in all directions. He wondered if the overpowering blood scent was dampening the feline's other senses. He hoped not.

The largest of the huts yielded no less than seven bodies, all in various stages of decomposition. _"Mr. Siraq. Do you see any heads?"_

He looked, feeling his gorge rise. Even Orpheus, at its worst, hadn't been the abattoir this place had become. "No, boss, I don't. Is that significant?"

" _Very. Get on back to the ship. You've gotten the information I need. Wait. What's that?"_

"What's what?"

" _There, to your left. Turn your bodycam that way."_ He did as he was told, seeing, now that his attention was drawn to it, an odd-looking pool of what appeared to be some sort of thick greenish florescent fluid. It seemed to glow, there in the semi-gloom of the hut. Were it not for its strange hue, it could have been mistaken for blood. _"There. Thank you, Mr. Siraq. Yes. Get on back. We'll probably be needing that shielding. And the heavy duty thrusters you installed._

" _It's unwise to linger here."_

 _To be continued…._


	6. Chapter 6: Possibilities

AlienX: A Gathering Storm, Chapter 6: Possibilities

…

 _I don't own the Alien/Predator franchise._

… _._

Chapter 6: Possibilities

"Awright, people, listen up!" Major Forrester looked over the colonial marines under his command. They were a smart-looking bunch, and he'd trained them well. There wasn't much call for such an elite group these days, which made him wonder what HQ had in mind. There had been no reports of outsider pirates or fringe "liberation" groups for nearly a standard decade now.

But somebody, some big-wig, he guessed, had pulled some strings, and, truth be known, he was kinda glad they had. There are creatures born to be prey, and there are creatures born to hunt. These were his hunters.

"Here's the sitch: less than a month ago, a small-fry geological survey team out on the fringe went silent. We've been trying to establish communications with them, with negative results. So either everybody's dead or gone. We're to find out which. And, whichever way they went, whether into somebody's slave-ship hold, or into the afterlife, we find out the usual W's: who, what, when, where, and why.

"We've had one drone flyover—no signs of movement. Means nothing. So we're goin' in hot and heavy. If there are civs to evac, we do it, if not…see above.

"You'll have noticed your rifles. Cutting edge, hundred rounders, helical mags, armor-piercing 'smart' bullets. Be careful what you target; those puppies won't miss.

"You'll also notice that nonstandard garment you're required to wear under your uniform. Do not, I repeat, _do not_ , take it off for any reason. I know it'll get hot, and it's heavy, yeah, but there's a reason we're outfitted with the stuff, and I ain't at liberty to tell you what it is. But those are orders." He paused a moment, thinking. Unlike the troops, he was well aware of what might await them at the terminus of their trip. He was trying to estimate what his losses were likely to be.

His estimates were too damn high for comfort.

Why hadn't the top brass just filled them all in on the real target? Why all the secrecy? He didn't know. _Ours not to question why…_

But he'd be damned to eternal fire and brimstone if he just sent in his troops as completely blind as HQ wanted.

"Now. Keep in mind, these are alien worlds. Be prepared for anything. Bunny rabbits could have poison fangs, and shadows might not be shadows. And you'll be equipped with state of the art AR headsets. Each of these scientists had the usual implant, so we can track 'em. You see any unusual concentration of 'em, ask yourself why they're all there, and why they haven't said 'hey.'

"So that's all for now. Get ready, 'cos we make planetfall in one standard day."

…

"Hey, John, wait up." Corporal John Houston slowed down outside the sit-rep room and allowed Butch to catch up with him. "What do you make of all this?"

"Hard to say." John Houston and Butch Lancaster were about as close to being total opposites as it was possible to be, and still be the same species. Whereas John was fit and trim, trained incessantly, practiced his marksmanship regularly, made sure his uniform was clean and spiffy, and was, in general, the very epitome of the colonial marine ideal, Butch Hargeson was overweight, trained just enough to get by, and almost always had at least one spot of food somewhere on his clothes. The CO's were always chewing him out over one thing or another. "Could be anything. Why? You heard anything?" One area where Butch surpassed him was in keeping his ear to the rumor mill.

"Only that this isn't the first time this sort of thing has happened. I couldn't get any specifics, though." The two were walking down the corridor back to their quarters. John would probably go over his weapons and armor, making sure everything was in better than perfect readiness; Butch would probably chow down on some snack cakes. He wouldn't actually get ready until about ten minutes before drop. ("Hey, I'm storing up food!" To which John usually replied, "You store up much more an' we'll need bigger quarters!") "No, I heard some other colony went silent some years ago. Same thing. Nobody knew anything about it."

"So what happened?"

"What happened? Nothing. Marines were sent in…and didn't find a soul. Nobody, and no bodies, left. Everything just as they left it, food uneaten, weapons still in their racks, not even loaded. Dusty, even. Heard tell there was a letter one guy was writing….just stopped in mid-sentence. They never found a trace of 'em. Ever."

"You've been reading too many of those weird novels. There's always a trace. What about the security cams?"

"Showed everything normal up to a certain time. Then, off they went. I mean, nobody running around, nobody talking about anything outta the ordinary, just day to day shit…then offline. No explanation ever given."

They turned into the small room they both shared. "You think we'll find something like that here?" John went about readying his gear.

Butch sat on his bunk, pulling his boots off. "Dunno. But that's the way it's shaping up, looks like."

"Aren't you gonna check your stuff?"

A snack cake had already found its way into Butch's mouth. "Wha'for? That's tomorrow." John just shook his head. Butch would never change. "Somethin' else I heard, might be of interest."

"What's that?"

"You know who pestered High Command to send us there?"

"No, who?"

"Weyland-Yutani."

"Seriously? Weyland-Yutani? Why?"

Shrug. "No idea. But one thing we can figure out. You know, normally, they'd just send in their own team to see what's wrong, right? Getting the military involved's a hassle. Even for them.

"So that means, if they had a hand in sending _us_ out here, they expect us to find somebody to fight.

"Somebody, or some _thing._

"And one other thing: guess who was involved in that last colony, the one that just disappeared? Yep."

John Houston slowly wiped a rag across his weapon. It was composed, largely, of self-lubricating metals, polymers, and nanofibers, so as to be as maintenance-free as possible. He thought about Butch's words. He was a marine. He'd been trained, and trained well, for combat. He was ready for battle, both physically and psychologically. But as he considered Butch's words, he felt something very much like a chill run down his spine.

Just what in God's name might be out here?

….

" _Mr. Siraq? How goes the installation?"_ Ripley had put the _Norstromo_ down on a small planet near the fringes of known space. Human presence here was minimal, but Siraq still availed himself of a truly excellent tavern not far from the landing zone. He knew better than to drink himself under the table; Ripley had never said anything, but he'd always received the impression that the captain of the _Norstromo_ did not approve of such behavior. And….dammit, the job just paid too good to throw away on anything as ridiculous as a drunken revel. Too bad the female population was either married or engaged to someone. And he knew better than to go _that_ route; last thing he needed was a jealous boyfriend / husband / fiancé with a blaster. Besides, he was busy.

After the last planet, Ripley had directed him to install the C-plus cannon. In spite of his misgivings, he could see the point. Whatever had killed those people at that outpost hadn't been human, of that he was certain. He'd seen what humans could do, would do, but some things you just know. The way the heads and spinal columns had been taken had been a deliberate act of cold-bloodedness he just couldn't ascribe to human beings. That had been done by something else. Something _hunting_. And taking trophies.

So, yeah, the C-plus cannon could be fitted into the front of the ship without too much alteration. He managed to remove a forward sensor and hammered, welded, coaxed, screwed, squashed, and cursed the barrel of the cannon into the opening thus created. "Boss? You do know we don't really have any way of aiming this thing, don't you?"

" _I'm aware of that. I'm reprogramming the ship's main computer so as to slave a ranging sensor to the cannon's axis. But it's a ballistic projectile anyway: once it's on its way, it either misses or it hits. No in-flight guidance. So it's basically short range. We have to have the target more or less in sight."_

Siraq took a break, wiping his face with a rag that used to be a clean towel. He was itching to ask his boss about just who or what had done that carnage back on that other world, but he knew the routine by now: no questions. Still, his curiosity burned.

He could see a time in the near future when he'd have to leave Ripley's employ. He'd accumulated enough credits for a fresh start, somewhere. And this business of _no questions_ was beginning to grate on his nerves. But he had to admit, one thing that kept him from doing so was that self-same curiosity. Curiosity and a desire for revenge.

Yeah, okay, he could and probably had hurt Weyland-Yutani. Okay. He might never know how much, but the fantasy of bursting into their corporate headquarters and blasting away at the assembled board members was just that: a fantasy, like a tri-V action movie. In real life, things like that just didn't happen.

But he also was nursing a certain amount of desire to target whatever had taken those skulls in the sights of the C-plus cannon. Yeah. A hundred pounds of matter moving at an effectively translight velocity would definitely ruin their _whole_ day. He _could_ do _that._ "Okay, boss. I got it in, and every test I'm able to run says it should work. As you say, it's short range, though."

" _It is nonetheless something we may need. And if we need to use it, we'll need to use it badly. How many rounds do we have for it?"_

"I was able to get us eight, and they didn't come cheap. Only reason I got 'em at all was, C-plus cannon aren't all that modern. Everybody wants the new stuff, the long-range guided missiles, smartbeam weapons, pulsar blasters. I didn't even bother with the beamers or blasters; the ship's power plant couldn't handle 'em."

Once the refitting was done, Ripley made ready for immediate liftoff. One benefit of the backward level of tech on this world was there was really nobody, no ground control, to bother filing a flight plan with. All they had to do was make sure they weren't about to hit or incinerate anything, and lift off.

Siraq found himself standing by the viewport. "Shouldn't we warn 'em, boss?"

" _And what would they do about it, Mr. Siraq? Their most advanced weapons are breech loading black powder firearms."_

Siraq was quiet. Then, "The _moral_ thing to do would be to warn 'em, Cap."

Again, there was the tiniest hint of a sigh, or maybe a hiss, one that was more probably his imagination than reality. _"I'll…transcribe what we know onto a cylinder in their language and send it back to them via message torp. That's the most I can do."_

"Thanks, boss. I know it may not help much, but, but, it's the _humane_ thing to do."

Again, there was the briefest of pauses. Then, _"I suppose it is."_

….

" _USS Vendetta: we have received your flight plans. You are cleared for LZ 86, dock 745. Over."_

"Ground control, we copy," said "Helen Baker," talking into the microphone. "You seem pretty full."

" _Busy season. Lots of trade vessels coming and going. I note you list yourself as an 'armed escort.' Mind if I ask what you're escorting?"_

"Not at all. We've orders to proceed to LV-5112, out on the fringe. Most of our mission is classified, but the truth is, I don't know that much about it, myself. Just be there, ready to go to work. Beyond that, I'm in the dark, too."

" _Don'cha love it. Sometimes I think the upper echelons classify stuff like that just for shits and giggles. Watch the ants scurry around."_

Ripley smiled into the voice only connection. "I'm curious about something. Maybe you can help me. On several stops, I've heard tell of a maybe-rogue ship called the _Norstromo._ It hasn't by any chance made its way out this way, has it?"

"Norstromo _? Nope. Can't say I've heard anything about it. You say a rogue?"_

"Well, that's just it. Nobody seems to agree. One world says one thing, another something else. There's no warrants out, at least nothing that I can find….I'm just curious, understand, but it's piqued my interest."

" _Hmph. A possible rogue ship, and no warrants, nothing official out about it? That_ _is_ _odd."_

"It's probably nothing. Anyway. Did you get our requisition list?"

" _Yeah…and your cred checks out, so we're having most of it waiting for you at the dock…"_

"'Most' of it?"

" _Some of these items are pretty scarce. We had to scrounge. And a couple we had to req from a moon out by the fifth planet; it's not here yet."_

"Okay. But we are in a hurry to get to our destination. No work, no pay. You know how it goes."

" _Yeah, don't we all. Well, give us about a day an' it should be here."_

…

Ripley called a meeting of the crew of the _Vendetta._ Although there weren't that many crewmembers actually on the ship, each species had selected a representative to speak for them. G'Ten T'Shaark assisted Ripley in bringing the meeting to order.

Once again, as the translator floor synched their nervous systems, Ripley took stock of how very unlike any other ship she'd ever served on this one was. Here, there were many creatures, some so strange the eye had a hard time seeing them as living creatures, yet they all managed to get along, propelled by their common goal: revenge.

Each of the species here had lost a world, and, more importantly, loved ones to the xenomorphs. Ripley didn't like to think about all the worlds where the monsters had overrun, killing everything, spreading their own kind. They could only be monsters, in the classic sense: powerful, dangerous beings with whom no communication, no middle ground, was possible, whose wants and desires could not be comprehended by human—or other—beings. It didn't matter what they looked like. It was their actions that made them monsters.

"Alright, everyone. Here's what I've found out so far.

"The _Norstromo_ made planetfall on Sincely's world, last standard month. From what I was able to gather, whoever is in command hired a worker, a tech named Cedric Siraq, small time operator.

"Now, from all this, I can only draw one conclusion: the android Ashe that was aboard the ship, and whom I thought was destroyed, must have somehow repaired itself and somehow overcome the xenomorph. That's probably why it hired the tech worker: to complete repairs on the ship and maybe on itself. But that raises some questions.

"One, why does the android need a human worker, if, indeed, it was able to repair itself? Of course, one possibility is that this Siraq will serve as a host for another xenomorph, once his usefulness is ended.

"But it still begs the question: why is the ship continuing to hang around the fringe like this? Why not make straight for Earth, and Weyland-Yutani? Why wait? That was the whole purpose behind our 'mission' to LV-426 in the first place. Now it has what it came for…why the wait?

"Is anyone seeing anything I'm missing?"

There was a humming, and the faint pressure in the back of her skull told her one of the others was preparing to "speak." _{{You are convinced this corporation you mentioned wishes to develop bioweapons from these *untranslatable, unpleasant*?}}_

"The android as good as admitted it, when we fought it, back on the ship."

 _{{Perhaps they wish to see the beast in action, derive more information from its depredations, before bringing it in.}}_

"But that's just it." Ripley chewed on a knuckle. "There've been no reports of monsters running loose, no indications the thing is even alive anymore. Except for the android's actions, I guess. But that's circular reasoning. But if they wished to see their new pet in action, why haven't there been any reports of communications lost, monsters on the loose?"

G'Ten T'Shaark shifted uncomfortably. _{{If I may, my captain, I should like to take this time to report something I came across the other day-period.}}_

"Go on."

 _{{As you know, we routinely browse your people's communications channels. There has been a report of a colony of your scientists suddenly falling silent. Nor have communications been reestablished with them. An unconfirmed rumor has it that a colonial vessel was dispatched to investigate.}}_

"All _right!_ _Now_ we've got something solid to go on! Just where was this outpost?"

Once the meeting had adjourned, G'Ten T'Shaark caught up with her in the hallway outside. Away from the translator-floor, they couldn't communicate directly, but he wrote on his tablet: _What will we do once we get there, my captain? A warship of your people has already been dispatched to that world. Would not our presence there complicate matters?_

She took the tablet and wrote back: _It would, if we were to do anything beyond lurk in the background. We will see what the marines can do. If the xenomorphs are involved, it could be they may well need our assistance._ The _Vendetta_ had been armed and armored by the Displaced to be their ultimate weapon against the monsters that had stolen their homes and lives. It was fully the equal of any human warship in space, and maybe a bit beyond most.

 _So we are to gather information first? Our stealth fields should keep us from being detected. But if we are needed?_

 _Then we strike, and strike hard. I need you to see to it that those of us who can physically fight these things be ready to do so. Rescue whomever we can, but we don't hold back. After all, we have to show Weyland-Yutani that their precious bioweapons aren't invincible. Now…if we could just get some sort of handle on where the_ Norstromo _would be likely to appear next…but I can make no sense of its pattern._

 _You believe this android to be in command?_

 _Yes. It's the only logical conclusion._ But even as she wrote it on the tablet, another possibility occurred to her, a strange thought jumping into her head, unbidden….

But no. That possibility was just too far-fetched to even consider. No. Couldn't be.

It had to be the android. It just had to be.

Besides, that other possibility was…terrifying.

 _To be continued…._


	7. Chapter 7: Logic and Intuition

AlienX: A Gathering Storm, Chapter 7: Logic and Intuition

….

 _I don't own the Alien/Predator franchise. But boy oh boy do I wish I did._

….

Chapter 7: Logic and Intuition

Ripley lay awake that night trying to figure out why the android was masquerading as her. Deception, yes, but why her in particular? Why not the captain, Dallas? Or for that matter, itself, the science officer Ash? Whoever it claimed to be, it could simply claim that the crew had either mutinied, died, or been killed the alien, and that it alone survived…the entire ship belonged, ultimately to Weyland-Yutani, so, really, there was nobody to actually blame. Why had the android decided to pose as her?

Had it studied her more than the others? It obviously must have, in order to be able to replicate her voice, but again, why? What possible motivation could it have? Androids, after all, were slaves to their logic programs, and this one was surely no different. What could have been so special about her?

….

"I'd be fascinated in hearing why our rynth herds aren't up to full strength," said Charles Bishop Weyland the Third, leaning back in his armchair. "I know you've done your homework." _At least, for your sake, I hope you have._

" _Yes, sir. However, I have to report to you before I can take the next step."_

"So report."

The man who'd identified himself as investigative officer third rank Carlsbad looked his tablet offscreen. _"Six standard ten-day periods ago, we sent in flyby drones to check on the status of the herds. To put it mildly, sir, they were pisspoor. We suspected some sort of micro-organism in the environment that they had no resistance to. So we sent in another flyby, this one more sophisticated, and programmed for a closer trajectory._

" _It didn't return, but we think we know why. Before it ceased transmission, it sent back a report of an unexpected ring of asteroidal rock circling the planet. Now, how that escaped the initial surveyors, I don't know. I wasn't in on that._

" _The only thing after that was to send in a live team. We did. Less than two standard days after landing, they ceased transmitting. That one, we have no clue why. We've been monitoring all the security bands…there's nobody moving around in their ship. They'd mounted a couple of cams outside…blank as fuck. Sir. And nothing in any recording that showed how they might've gotten that way. Our specialist's best guess is they were shot down, but by who and what, we don't know._

" _Which brings me to the reason for this call. We have that troop transport going out to investigate the disappeared scientists…this could be connected. Turns out, from their trajectory, they'll pass by this world first. I'd like to request they look into it, but I need your authorization to do so."_

Weyland sat and frowned. Then, "No, Mr. Carlsbad, I'm afraid I can't give that authorization. It's one thing to send a group of armored marines to check out missing persons, but to look into the well-being of cattle would be problematical, politically speaking. I can give the order to send a group of our own people there, as well-armed as we can make them…and that's pretty well-armed. True, they won't have the marines' training, but perhaps they won't need it." He leaned back.

" _Yes, sir."_ Carlsbad was clearly dissatisfied with the response offered.

"I get the impression you believe this to be an ineffective response. You may be right, but it's one we have to try. If it'll help things any more, I'll put you in charge. No foolish chances, just a close-range approach. If someone did take out our people, they surely aren't invisible. Take some air and soil samples, and see if there's anybody there to punch holes in. If so, well, I personally will look the other way if you do.

"I'll have your paperwork sent down to you."

….

" _Mr. Siraq?"_ Ripley's disembodied voice came over the ship's intercom.

"Yeah, boss?"

" _What's the status on the C-plus cannon as of right now?"_ They were cruising towards the next destination on the list Acting Captain Ripley had drawn up, one LV-366, one that Ripley had told him would probably be a good target world, due to its location and ease of geoforming. It wouldn't need much to make it suitable.

Ever since humanity had first managed to find the very first planets that could actually support the kind of life they were accustomed to, they'd learned the hard way to take nothing for granted. The old tri-V shows hadn't taken into account that many worlds out there, that, while they _technically_ could support human life, might also play host to innumerable other factors, many of which could make a planet _effectively_ uninhabitable. It was difficult to live on a world where the flora attacked your sinuses to the point where your nose bled constantly, and where microorganisms attacked your body. And there were such worlds. A lot of them.

It was to these worlds—the worlds that didn't need much, just a little tweaking, to make them work—that the efforts of geoforming techniques had been directed. Siraq could see why Ripley targeted these worlds. Just a little tweaking…and at the same time, sticking it to Weyland-Yutani. The new conditions wouldn't be ideal for the formations of the massive rynth herds they'd previously planned on, but would be very hospitable to humans. "Uh, it's complete, boss. All we gotta do is load it. You've got the controls up there."

Ever since his first contact with Acting Captain, former Warrant Officer Ellen Ripley (whom he'd never seen), she had explained that the ship was divided into two more or less equal parts: the forward section, where Ripley (and Jones, her cat) evidently lived, and the aft section, which housed his living quarters, the main med facility, and the cryo chambers. Currently, all but one of these cryo chambers was occupied by large greenish-purple pods that looked like nothing he'd ever seen. The closest analogy he could think of was of buds on some flowering plants, ready to open when conditions were right, and spread their spores upon the winds…

According to Ripley, these biopackages were the "tweakers" for the worlds they'd visited. Upon each one, he'd set out a number of them, still cold from cryosleep, in deep ravines, or other protected areas, then returned to the ship. Once they'd warmed up some, said Ripley, they'd begin the process of transforming the new world into something more suitable.

But on one world, he'd run across evidence of a savage alien race, bent on hunting humans for trophies. It was at this point that Ripley had instructed him to mount the C-plus cannon into the nose of the ship.

He found he couldn't really disagree with that implied logic. "Yeah, boss, as far as I can tell, short of a test fire, it's working."

" _Load a round into the firing chamber."_

"Uh…boss?"

" _I need you to load a round into the firing chamber, ready for a moment's notice."_

"You got something on the hyperdar?"

" _No….but I know we are being followed."_

He got the loader and plucked one of the eight C-plus rounds from the rack he'd built to secure them, opening the cover that was an additional shielding for the actual firing chamber. Actually, it was more of a "launch" chamber, since nothing so antiquated as gunpowder was used. When fired, the C-plus projectile skipped in and out of normal space, reaching effective velocities of quite a bit faster than light. The only reason the same propulsion mechanism had not been used to transport ships to and from the stars was that the process churned the inside of the projectile into a strange state that was neither wholly matter nor wholly energy, but an odd mixture of the two—or perhaps a different regime of matter altogether. Either way, no living beings could tolerate such a scrambling.

When the rounds hit, they hit with the force of one hundred pounds moving at a velocity very nearly that of light itself. The resulting impact was equal to many medium to high yield nuclear devices. "Think you've got something, boss?"

" _Perhaps."_

….

"Think we've got something?" Houston asked Major Forrester. The two were in the main ops room, studying the active map of the ground below.

"Too soon to tell. But we can tell there's no life signs. Our drones aren't showing anything up; for more detail, we're gonna have to go in." He flicked his screen, activating the comm: "Alright, people. Assemble in the lock. We're taking the shuttle down." He turned to the captain. "Keep everything in readiness. There's probably nothing to find, but that's not the way to bet. Awright, Houston, le's go get the ladies prepared."

The trip down to the ground was uneventful. Even the weather seemed to cooperate; although Houston noted some gray skies far to the north, it didn't look like anything but sunshine here.

Down, and out: the marines exited the shuttle in double file, already moving for cover, weapons at the ready. The AR headsets they wore showed them everything about the place, and extended their vision far into the infrared and, for some reason, partway into the ultraviolet. Houston wondered about that.

John and Butch were shoulder to shoulder. Butch Lancaster might be the exact opposite of him off duty, but he was a good marine, and a good man to have at your side when the feces hit the rotary air circulation system. They both scanned a full one hundred eighty degrees; the marines behind them did likewise, the rearmost watching their backs. They were all connected via the comm link, and each one was displayed on the heads-up display of the AR units. "Let's try over there." Houston indicated the largest of the Quonset huts.

Inside was the scene of carnage. They were marines, and they'd been trained to deal with all manner of death, but Houston found his own gorge rising. Of course, he knew some of what they saw was due to natural scavengers, and the standard insects, altogether ready to feed on the dead, but still, there was no doubt that everybody here had met with a violent end. "Well, gentlemen, I believe we've found the scientists."

" _Don't turn your backs on anything, Corporal,"_ Forrester's voice came over the line. _"And don't be thinking only in terms of two dimensions. Scan overhead."_

"Yes, sir." John wondered what his commanding officer knew that he wasn't sharing.

They found the body of Gren, also minus his head and spinal column. Cause of death: exsanguination from a sharp object piercing him through and through. Houston thought that was sort of peculiar; nobody had been killed by anything like modern weapons. What was with that?

And how was it that the scientists hadn't been able to get off even so much as a single shot? He could understand panicky civilians maybe spraying bullets everywhere, but they'd had automatic weapons….and hadn't fired a single shot from them. Gren's weapon, now corroded from the elements, even had a round in the chamber. All he'd have to have done was press the trigger.

What had happened here?

…..

LV-366: Siraq had just unloaded the last of the biopackages when Ripley broke into his comm link. _"Mr. Siraq, you need to get back to the ship, ASAP. Drop whatever you're doing and move."_

"I'm done anyway, boss. The packages are delivered. I'm on my way back now."

" _Good. Be very careful. Are you armed?"_

"I got a couple of handguns. Didn't bring anything bigger. Guess I should have?"

" _What is, is. Do not waste time. Get back here now."_

Siraq was within sight of the ship, desperately driving the loader at its top velocity (which wasn't much), when he saw a flicker on the edge of his vision. Instantly, he was alert, watching for anything else out of the ordinary…he could see the ship's ramp, with Jones, the cat, watching him, and looking around. The cat's fur was standing up, making him look twice as big.

Something tore past him, burying itself in the loader's console: some sort of many-edged throwing star. He dove off the loader, even as he gave the controls a twist, so that the loader itself spun in place.

Something roared like an Earthly lion, and he could see an odd distortion standing on the top of the loader, the westering sun behind it looking like light seen through a lens….

He drew forth the slug throwers that life on the streets had taught him to never be without, and fired blindly at the distortion, even as he rolled and dodged. He knew to remain in one spot was death.

Something _thunked_ into the ground beside him, some sort of spear. He spotted the point of its origin and directed his fire there, and was rewarded with a guttural bellow. He'd hit _something._ But why couldn't he see his attackers?

An idea occurred to him. He was still too far from the _Norstromo_ to make a run for it, but maybe there was something he could do about that invisibility….

Ever since he was a child, he'd accumulated certain objects, artifacts that he just, for some reason, he always carried with him. One thing he carried, especially on these alien worlds, was a can of paint. When he was little, he'd used it to mark his territory on Orpheus…for all the good it had done.

But he'd taken to carrying it again so as to mark his way back, here on these worlds where there was no map. Now, he withdrew one, and unleashed its contents towards the spot where he'd last seen that strange distortion…..

The space around him was immediately filled with a cloud of red mist….and mist that clung to one spot in particular….

The thing was a good two and a half meters tall, muscled like a gorilla, and appeared to be wearing some sort of strange mask. It towered over him, drawing back its left arm, upon which was some sort of wristband with extendable blades….

….And Siraq threw a lit Zippo lighter into the cloud of mist the surrounded the thing, diving for cover behind the loader even as he did so.

The paint cloud ignited like a bomb, swelling up into a fireball that consumed the alien, blowing it back away from Siraq, and knocking it away from him, stunning it, and short circuiting its invisibility screen. Now, with the alien fully visible, Siraq was free to direct his slug thrower's full firepower straight into the strange form itself.

Siraq's guns might not have been the same as a full assault weapon, but they threw a good caliber, potent round. The armor-piercing rounds found their way between the chinks of the alien's armor, drilling into it with bloodthirsty enthusiasm. The alien struggled to get to its feet, its hardy physique almost shaking off the effects of the slugs…

…And Siraq kept on firing, not even looking around. Had there been another such alien nearby, it could have easily have killed him then…

But there wasn't, and the alien finally crumpled and died beneath the hail of bullets from Siraq's guns.

Siraq approached the still form in front of him. Not invulnerable, then, just very very hard to kill.

" _Mr. Siraq? I believe we'd best leave. Now."_

"Gotcha, boss. Just one thing…" He reached down carefully, wary of the alien predator suddenly coming to life, and claimed the strange spear it had thrown at him. With a savagery and a suddenness that surprised even him, he plunged the spear into the still form of the alien. "See how _you_ like it, motherfucker!"

" _Mr. Siraq. Get in here. Leave the loader. Now."_

"On my way, boss." But, on an impulse, he bent down and unfastened the armband the alien wore, that had the protruding blades. And it had a knife, too…

" _Mr. Siraq! This is no time for souvenir hunting!"_

"Got'cha, boss," even as he sprinted up the ramp to where Jones sat, waiting. The cat suddenly hissed, looking back behind him….

….and he threw himself flat on the floor of the loading area, just in time to hear a razor-sharp whistling sound pass overhead, and a metallic _clank_ as something buried itself in the far wall. But the hatch was already closing, the ship lifting off. "Boss?"

" _We appear to be in luck, Mr. Siraq. They either didn't have or didn't use any sort of energy weapon. Had they done so, the ship's integrity would probably be compromised."_ As always, Ripley sounded calm and in control. He admired that; she must have ice water instead of blood. He was still shaking from the aftermath. Jones had long since disappeared through an aperture in the bulkhead that the cat used occasionally to patrol Siraq's area for mice.

He looked around, at the area where the metallic sound had come from. Embedded in the hard metal of the bulkhead was what resembled an Earthly throwing star, a _shuriken_ , but with a ridiculous number of razor sharp blades. How did they throw that?—he wondered, even as he pulled it from the wall. He found he had to use a pry-bar to get it loose. Whoever—whatever threw that thing was _strong._

"Who are they, boss?" Ooops, he thought: first rule: no questions.

But Ripley seemed to consider this one worth answering. _"You know from their previous depredations that they are hunters, that they hunt for sport. Humans seem to be on their list of prey. I didn't spot anything that might have been a ship, but that doesn't mean there isn't one. Stand by. You may need to get into your acceleration couch. If they are here—and they are—we will no doubt be pursued._

" _The C-plus is ready for firing?"_

"Yeah, boss. It's a single-shot 'till I load the next round, though."

" _Then I guess I'd better not miss."_

…

The USS _Vendetta_ had managed to track the _Norstromo_ into the deserted star system. There were no civilizations in this system, so why was the ship here?

In the back of her mind, Ellen Ripley was nursing a strange and terrifying idea. It made no sense…but in a sense it did. After they'd defeated—they thought—the android Ash, he, it had taunted them about the alien being "the perfect life form." But by what standards?

It was certainly survival oriented. But Ripley wondered: suppose the creatures made their way to a populated planet. Just suppose. They'd colonize, produce queens, nests, drones, and more queens, nests and drones in a never-ending pattern. Eventually, they'd run out of hosts for their embryos. What then?

Of course, she knew the theory: whatever world these monsters had originated on had some sort of checks and balances that kept the xenomorphs from overpopulating. What it was, she couldn't hazard a guess, but whatever it was had to be pretty awesome to keep _these_ things in check.

Or was there another factor at work?

Back when she was on the _Norstromo,_ in those days after the larval form of the creature had chewed its way out of Kane's body, they had been frantic to find it, and kill it before it killed them. But…it had matured so rapidly. The thing must have a fantastic metabolism to be able to grow so quickly. And where did it get the biomass for such extraordinary growth, anyway? It couldn't use the food synthesizers….

….unless, of course, it could.

But the synthesizers required authorization….how had it done that?

The simple answer was Ash, who even then was safeguarding the monstrous creature, intending to bring it back to his masters at Weyland-Yutani. Or had it been?

What if the creature could _adapt?_ What if it could _learn?_

She shook her head, dismissing the thought. No. They'd seen no evidence that this was necessary or even possible. It had to be Ash, even as it was Ash now, masquerading as her (but why?), carrying the xenomorph to an eventual meeting with Wey-Yu representatives.

She sat in one of the command chairs on the bridge of the ship. G'Ten T'Shaark noticed her thoughtful expression. _You are disturbed, my captain?_ They'd long ago installed a translator into the floor of the bridge. This was where communication between her and the crew would be most vital.

She rubbed her forehead. _Yes, I am. I cannot understand why the android is doing what it is doing. It doesn't make logical sense, at least, not by any logic I'm able to grasp._

 _There is a possibility, Ripley Ellen Ripley. This android's programming may have suffered some mishap. Perhaps it is malfunctioning._

 _No, it doesn't feel like that. This is all part of a deliberate plan. But I can't unravel the pattern. Why has the android not simply gone to Weyland-Yutani? It has what they wanted. Why all this skulking about on the fringes of human space? Perhaps it did need to repair itself, but now…._

 _You are correct in saying the patterns do not make logical sense. Could it be we are overlooking something?_

 _I_ _know_ _I am overlooking something. But the question is, what?_

 _To be continued…._


	8. Chapter 8: Enemies and Allies

AlienX: A Gathering Storm, Chapter 8: Enemies and Allies

….

 _I don't own the Alien/Predator franchise._

…

The United Space Ship _Vendetta_ was, technically, in "downtime," as Ripley thought of it. Many of the alien species that formed the crew either did not need to sleep, or else could remain functioning for what would be days at a time, by human standards, with no loss of function. Sometimes this was due to their biology, sometimes it was due to their planet's of origin having vastly different rotations, patterns of day and night, than any Earth-descended human was familiar with. Either way, Ripley admired them. She wished _she_ could go for days at a time without sleep.

Because sleep brought dreams, and lately, her dreams had all been, at best, nightmares. Always, she was trapped in a maze somewhere, with the xenomorph closing in on her….she could hear it, catch glimpses of it, could even smell it, it seemed…so close to her.

And always, she was alone, unarmed, and sometimes naked. Of course, the waking Ripley had no difficulty deciphering where _that_ part of the nightmare arose from.

Not only were the xenomorphs essentially rapists, implanting their embryos in the living bodies of their prey, but being naked in dreams frequently indicated feelings of vulnerability, of being unprepared. And Ripley felt very unprepared.

She sat on the bridge of the _Vendetta,_ a cup of something that more or less resembled coffee in her hand, gazing abstractedly out the forward monitor screens. Right at this very moment, they were cruising through a clear section of space, uncluttered by asteroids, space gravel, or dust clouds. The view, of the distant stars in their full glory, brought back to her why she'd sought a position on a vessel like the _Norstromo_ , a job in space, to begin with, all those many years ago. It was all so beautiful.

But beauty frequently hid terror.

She felt the by-now familiar buzzing as the translator-floor was activated. _You cannot sleep, my captain?_ G'Ten T'Shaark had come up to the bridge.

"No," she said aloud. The translator-floor transferred her subvocalized thoughts straight to him, but she kept to the habit of speaking, halfway fearful she'd forget how to talk. And that thought brought up another one she'd turned over and over in her mind, on those nights when she couldn't—or didn't dare—sleep: What if….suppose everything went well. They found the _Norstromo_ , were in time to keep the xenomorph out of the hands of Wey-Yu, blew the ship and its controlling android to cosmic dust, were completely successful in their mission….what then? What would she do? Return to human space? Try to regain some semblance of her old life back on Earth?

What would any of them do?

She remembered the old Earth stories about the sea ship _Flying Dutchman_ , a sailing ship that could never put into any harbor, that just sailed the seas of Earth…forever. She'd been young when she'd read that old legend, and it had seemed so appealing, in a strange way, especially on those days when life just didn't seem to be treating her fairly. Just leave the world behind, and just sail, sail forever.

And now….?

Had she found herself in just such a situation as that now? Had the old romantic myth she'd been so attracted to become hers in real life?

 _Be careful what you wish for…._

"No, G'Ten, I cannot. I keep thinking there is something I'm overlooking, something obvious. So far, the best we've been able to do is follow the _Norstromo_ , and we've been lucky. Very lucky. We've picked up its trail here and there. But…there's no predictability to it. If the android's in control, there has to be a pattern. But what?"

 _That I cannot answer, Ripley Ellen Ripley. However, while it is not my wish to distress you further, I fear my news will not grant you any better insight into this pattern you seek._

"What news?"

 _Our next planet is one inhabited by your people, but at a very low level of technological development. All our indications point to the_ Norstromo _as having landed here briefly. But there is no way of communicating with them via any sort of remote mechanism; they are an agrarian society, and have nothing to offer our target._

Ripley's voice was grim. "Nothing except warm bodies, ready for implantation. I'm afraid of what we'll find. Did you pull up that list of those of us capable of combat?" Not all the alien species crewing the _Vendetta_ were physically capable of going out in face to double-jawed snout warfare against the altogether too capable xenomorphs.

 _I did. I had to winnow many who wanted to go, but would not have been as effective. Many were disappointed._

"Tell 'em they may get their chance next time." Ripley was under no illusions; the _Vendetta_ 's crew was as closely bound as any crew in the history of space, but they were still apt to lose warriors against the xenomorphs. Very apt.

In fact, thought Ripley, with a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach, it was really an inevitability. "How soon till we're within reach to make planetfall?"

…

The shuttle descended upon the small town, obviously the contact point for any off-world traffic by virtue of having the only cleared area that could and had served as a space port. Of course, there was no ground control, no landing protocol. They had to do all that themselves. "We just have to make sure there's nobody on the landing field," muttered Ripley. To the rest of the crewmembers in the shuttle. "Weapons at the ready. You all know what we're likely to find. Let me go first; I'll signal you as soon as I can."

 _My captain, is this wise? You are risking yourself._

"None of the other worlds we've been to has exhibited any signs of xenomorph infestation. I find that….extremely peculiar. I can't think of any other reason for the _Norstromo_ to be here, to've come here, but I feel obligated to give this world the benefit of the doubt. Don't worry; first sign of anything wrong, and I'll scream like a bitch."

 _How does a bitch scream?_

Ripley exited the shuttle as carefully as if she were walking into a mine field. Well, in a sense, she was. Actually, a plain, ordinary mine field would have caused her less tension: mines don't jump at you from the shadows.

In the distance, she could see the lights of the village. All seemed well. She shifted the pulse rifle she carried into a more comfortable position, and moved forward. The "gate" (an actual iron-wrought gate) to the airfield wasn't that far away.

They'd arrived just as dark was falling, and Ripley's ears could detect the sound of revelry coming from some of the lighted structures. She looked, squinting, to see if there was any movement….

There was a guard at the gate, carrying an old-style black powder rifle nearly as long as he was. "Howdy!"

"Er, hello. Is this world Erion?"

"Shore is, l'il lady. Best planet around. Well, best we got, anyhows. What brings you out this way?"

Ripley shifted her gun to a less threatening position. This guy seemed uninfected, and there was no sign of the aliens' usual way of cocooning their victims up alive in nests. "Mostly curiosity. Not much about this planet in our files. Also, the crew could use a rest stop."

"I totally understand. We ain't got much in the way o' entertainment, but ya'll are free to join us. That is, if'n you're human, 'n' all." There was the hint of suspicion in the guard's voice, the first Ripley had detected.

"Human?"

"Well, yeah. We got word, from that last ship, that there might be some trouble come lookin' for us."

Now he had Ripley's complete attention. "What was the name of that ship? Do you remember?"

The guard scratched his head. "Not sure. Sumthin' began with a 'N'. Norse….Norsemen? Norstrilia? You'd have to talk to our town elder, Jacob, to get any details."

"How might I do that?"

Soon Ripley found herself in the home of the village mayor-equivalent, Jacob Stravinsky. Apparently, the position was an inherited one, as the elderly gentlemen spoke about his father, and his father's father, as holding the same job. "Yes, Captain Baker, the ship's name was the _Norstromo._ She landed here a few tendays ago, put down for repairs and maintenance. Or at least so that young technician guy said, and I saw nothing to the contrary."

"What was he like?" This must've been the tech the android had hired, way back on Boss Cargo's world, to repair the ship. Ripley wondered about him. Evidently, he hadn't been fed to the xenomorph yet, which indicated his purpose on board the renegade vessel wasn't over with.

"Nice enough fellow. Had an eye for the ladies, but all young men do. He mostly kept to himself, though, didn't drink too much, and didn't avail himself of any other recreational drugs we had. I got the impression he was in pretty constant communication with his boss on board the ship, however."

"Who was his boss?"

"I never met her—none of us did—but I believe I overheard the name Ripley."

Ripley closed her eyes in frustration. The android was still pretending to be her. Again, why? Why not just pass itself off as…as itself, the science officer Ashe? Or, or anybody? What could it gain from this deception? "A woman captain," mused Jacob. "I'm given to understand that's not that unusual, out there. But I guess we notice things like that. Not saying a woman captain's worse or better," he said, misinterpreting her look, "it's just, for us, that's unusual. So we notice."

"I understand, sir." Jacob's third wife brought them hot drinks, with the option of spicing up said drinks with what Jacob called some "truly excellent spirits," as well as some fresh-baked pastries. Ripley's mouth watered at the smell. The _Vendetta's_ food replicator could put anything in human space to shame—it had to, to be able to feed all the various species that crewed the Displaced ship—but it couldn't replicate a simple good, hot meal. "The guard mentioned something about a message? From the _Norstromo?_ "

Jacob nodded, taking a bite out of a pastry, wincing as its heat hit his tongue. "The ship had already left, and we'd pretty much figured we'd seen the last of them, when they launched a pod back to us. A message pod. The message was written in several different languages, but I knew one. It warned us of aliens, monsters."

"What, er, what sort of monsters? Did it say?"

"Details were a bit lacking, but it warned us about alien, nonhuman beings who would hunt us for sport. And, the scariest part about it was, it said we couldn't always see 'em. Like, they were invisible, at least sometimes."

"Invisible aliens?"

"That's what it said. Told us to be on guard, make sure nobody went anywhere alone. 'Course, you know, we kinda can't always do that… But also, if things started, y'know, happening…to do things like start a bunch of huge fires, or smear ourselves with mud or something. Not sure why. It didn't sound like somebody's idea of a joke, but that's what some took it to be."

Huge fires….smearing themselves with mud. Ways to confuse thermal sensors, Ripley thought.

None of this made sense. With Ashe in control, there was absolutely no reason to warn anybody about any invading alien monsters. Not from any standard of logic. And these precautions, these tactics…didn't seem aimed at the xenomorphs to begin with.

Was there a third party at work here? Another set of alien invaders? The xenomorphs didn't hunt for sport, didn't take trophies. Had to be another species.

Great. More complications.

"Well, thank you, sir. That pretty much answers all the questions I have, at least, for right now." And brought up more than ever. She stood up, adjusting her pulse rifle across her back. The content of the messages, as well as the messages themselves, concerned her. First off, why inform the Erionians of a threat from the stars to begin with? What was the point?

And why these oddly _specific_ instructions on just what to do if and when the alien threat attacked? Nothing about them seemed designed to ward off xenomorph activity. What game could Ashe be playing? "Thank you, once again. I'll be returning to my ship. We really need to catch up to the _Norstromo_ , and every moment counts."

"Are you sure you won't stay a while? Festival's coming up, and you and your crew are welcome to join us. Furthermore," he winked, conspiratorially, "Offhand, I can think of at least three or four young men who'd love to make your _personal_ acquaintance, Ms. Baker."

In spite of her driving need to get going, Ripley found herself powerfully tempted. It had been a long time for her, and she could use a good recreational lay. Maybe more than one. But…her crew would alarm the natives, so….

"Thank you, sir. Maybe on the return trip. For now, we really have to be going."

…

The _Norstromo_ found itself cruising through an asteroid belt on its way to the next jump point. Siraq was surveying his "souvenirs," as Ripley insisted on calling them.

The knife was a keeper. Big, full-tang, and made of some sort of metal—possibly ceramic steel—that was razor sharp and promised to stay that way. The knife was one solid piece of steel, forged from one solid ingot of metal. He'd seen knives similar to this, in human space, going for hundreds of credits. And worth every one. This one looked to be hand-designed, with combat scenes inscribed on the scales. They served to make the handles rough enough to be slip-resistant, should the knife get covered in blood. Or, he guessed, other bodily fluids

The spear fascinated him. He toyed with it until he found the catch that unlocked and retracted the ends into a four-foot shaft. Another touch to the same control, and the spear shot back to its full length, locking in place. It, too, had a hand-designed look. The grip was orthopedic, enabling him to grip it securely, with no danger of slippage. Again, like the knife, it was designed to be wielded even though covered in bodily fluids.

Whoever, whatever made these things knew their stuff.

The throwing star, however, defeated him. He couldn't figure out the catch, and couldn't see how to throw the damned thing without slicing himself up. Siraq didn't know all that much about bladed weapons—guns had always been his thing—but it looked like this throwing star was somehow designed to return to the hand that threw it. Like a boomerang.

Well, if he wanted to lose a hand, he'd give that a try.

But he had to admit: these weapons were in keeping with what he'd observed, back on that nameless world. The creatures who'd killed those scientists had been after trophies, pure and simple. They hadn't used slug throwers or beamers, just blades. Like they were handicapping themselves.

And, he could deduce that, because of the weapons used, it was clearly _not_ an invasion. No, the humans had been _hunted,_ pure and simple. No attempt at conquest had been made.

Humans had been the prey. So what hunted them were the predators. There was no other word for them.

" _Mr. Siraq?"_

"Yeah, boss?"

" _You've still got the C-Plus cannon loaded, do you not?"_

"Yeah, boss. The round is in the launching chamber, ready to fire."

" _Good. I believe we're going to need it."_

Immediately, Siraq paused his perusal of the alien weapons, and manned his own personal console. It was one he'd mostly cobbled together from spare parts, just enough to let him know what was going on with as much of the rest of the ship as the captain would allow, while still in keeping with the "no questions" rule. "You got something on the scanner, boss?"

" _No. But I know we're being followed."_ This wasn't the first time Siraq's boss had mentioned a feeling that was more than a feeling.

Siraq had long ago learned the art of asking questions without actually asking questions. "Those trophy freaks, no doubt."

" _The fact that their ship is almost undetectable—like they, themselves were-increases the probabilities towards just that. But if it's them, they will not rest until one of us is dead."_

"Boss?"

" _It's going to be them."_

….

The colonial troop transport vessel _Perseus_ had received new orders. The marines were directed to a world near to the one they'd recently investigated, where the slaughter had occurred. Major Forrester shook his head as he read the orders. Investigate why rynth herd population was suffering.

Investigating _cattle._

They were _marines!_ There was no need for them on this world! Let the megacorp-*

But then he saw the rest of the report. A corporate team _had_ been sent in…and had not reported back.

Nor was it the only one.

….

Siraq gazed at his display, which showed the live feeds from the sensors around the hull. Although none of them were terribly sensitive—the _Norstromo_ had never been designed as a fighter or warship, and so did not have military-grade optics or scanners—he'd done the best he could to see to it that what they had showed up as much as was possible, given what he had to work with. "Anything, boss?"

" _I am sensing something. I know we are being followed, but what is following us is extraordinarily well camouflaged, to say the least."_ This wasn't the first time Ripley had implied she had access to information—scanners he'd not detected, possibly—that were of a higher order than anything he was familiar with.

 _Either that, or women's intuition,_ he smirked. He knew better than to say _that_ , however. "Uh, boss? I _can_ get another C-Plus shell in the handler, ready to be loaded at a moment's notice."

" _Thank you, Mr. Siraq. I doubt we'll need it, however; not this time. These hunter—these Predators—seek to add us to their trophies. To that end, they seek to ambush us. I intend to turn the tables on them."_

"Boss, you know I'm behind you one hundred ten percent. You just tell me what to do, an' I'll do it. I wanna make those bastards _pay._ "

" _You've done quite a lot already, Mr. Siraq, for which I am grateful. Now, I would advise you to get into your acceleration couch. This…could get a bit bumpy."_

"You see 'em, boss?"

" _I don't have to. I only have to know where they have to be._

" _Ambushes work both ways."_

…

On board the yautja ship: the Alpha Hunt leader examined his readouts, showing the _ooman_ vessel. He and the neophyte hunters underneath him had been stalking this particular ship ever since it landed on the other world, the one where they'd taken trophies. The Hunt Leader had watched the events there unfold with a certain kind of admiration: the little _ooman_ had proved to be resourceful enough to defeat a neophyte hunter. The Leader could respect that.

That the _ooman_ had killed the neophyte was, of course, simply the way. It was the way of the hunt. Kill or be killed. The neophyte had become careless; he'd assumed that because the _ooman_ was small and physically weak, that the conclusion of their battle was forgone. Being proved wrong resulted in his death. That, too, was the way.

The Leader bore the _ooman_ no ill will. In fact, he'd been impressed with the small creature's resourcefulness. The _ooman_ should receive a blood marking for his successful kill, but the Leader knew _oomans_ didn't have that tradition.

But what he couldn't figure out was the doings of the vessel upon which the _ooman_ was traveling. Life signs were confusing. Why had it circulated these fringe worlds? What was it doing? What was its mission?

What _could_ it be doing out here, so far from the center of _ooman_ space?

Well. It ultimately didn't matter. They'd trap this creature, and he, personally, would see to it that the _ooman's_ skull was given a place of honor on his trophy wall. And he would tell sucklings, in years to come, about how the _oomans_ should never be taken for granted. They might be small and weak, but they made up for it in _k'tinde,_ courage and intelligence _._

But something about the whole situation gnawed at him. Something wasn't right. He couldn't put a claw on it, but it was there….just out of reach.

At the moment, they were following the _ooman_ vessel through the asteroid belt, taking care to camouflage themselves. They'd seen no indication that the _oomans_ were aware of their presence, and he'd keep it that way. Until time to strike, of course. Hopefully, they'd make planetfall soon, and he could grant this resourceful _ooman_ the honor of joining his other trophies, on his wall, back at his abode.

" _Acceleration couch, Mr. Siraq. I'm preparing to fire the cannon."_

"Have you got a lock on 'em, boss?"

" _No. But I don't need to know precisely where they are. Just where they have to be."_ With that, she fell silent. Siraq readied himself for some high-grav maneuvers…

The _Norstromo_ passed a large asteroid, as the captain brought it into alignment with their previous course, looking for all the world to be trying to use the asteroid as cover, to throw off anyone following them. _"Get ready, Mr. Siraq."_

The _Norstromo_ continued on its course until it was three light-minutes away from the asteroid. Then the ship suddenly swapped ends, the mouth of the C-Plus cannon pointing straight back along the path they just come from.

" _Now."_ And Ripley fired the C-Plus cannon at the asteroid they'd just passed.

The C-Plus shell hit with the force of an atomic bomb, blasting the entire asteroid apart instantly, gravel-sized shards expanding outward with the full force of the energy the cannon had imparted to them, smashing through anything in sight….and some things not immediately visible.

The yautja ship was caught flat-footed. They'd camouflaged themselves against direct sensors, but their shields weren't designed to handle the cosmic shotgun-blast of asteroid pieces, especially when it happened _right next to them._

The Hunt Leader swore an oath in a language that had been old when glaciers still covered most of the Earth. This he hadn't foreseen _at all_. _How_ had the _oomans_ detected his ship's position?

In the back of his mind, a horrible suspicion began to take place.

All departments were calling in damage reports. The hull was breached, and the camouflage unit disabled. Life support was failing. The ship was fully visible. Even from where he sat, he could tell the ship had suffered major damage.

Then the engineer called in. The power core was destabilizing, the shielding mechanism having been ravaged by the sudden meteor storm.

The Hunt Leader accepted this all with a certain amount of equanimity. It was the way of all things. Like the neophyte Hunter before him, he had misjudged the prey, and this was the result. He was only sorry that he'd doomed the warriors under his command…

"… _.unidentified space ship. This is the USS Vendetta. We notice you have suffered severe damage. Do you require assistance? Message repeats…."_

 _To be continued…._


	9. Chapter 9: Insight

AlienX: A Gathering Storm, Chapter 9: Insight

"… _.repeats. Unknown vessel, this is the USS Vendetta. We notice that you have sustained major damage. Do you require assistance? Message repeats…"_

Ellen Ripley sat in the command chair of the United Space Ship _Vendetta_. They'd just come across the damaged alien ship. It's design didn't match anything on record.

{{ _My captain?}}_

"Yes, G'Ten?"

 _{{I have conferred with one Vooorm, who works in the engineering section. He states that, from what he can tell, this alien vessel will soon be no more. But also, he states that he has heard rumors of ships matching this design. The rumors are not comforting ones. Evidently, from what he is telling me, they are hunters, predators seeking prey. A warrior race.}}_

"Hm." Ripley chewed on a knuckle. "That's as may be, but we're morally obligated to offer what assistance we can. What happened here? Were you able to determine how the vessel became so damaged?"

 _{{Without more evidence, nothing is certain. But it seems they were caught in a trap, an ambush. A nearby asteroid was targeted with some sort of high powered ordnance and the shrapnel sprayed over a wide area, defeating their camouflage system and seriously damaging their ship.}}_

"Have they responded to our messages? At all?"

 _{{No, my captain. But if these truly are the predators the Vooorm mentioned, this is not all that unusual. They seldom communicate with what they perceive as their prey. Which is pretty much everybody.}}_

"Well, they won't be communicating with anybody soon, if these readings are accurate. The power core seems to be becoming less and less stable by the moment."

On board the yautja ship: the Hunt Leader was composing himself for his inevitable meeting with his ancestors. He'd have some good stories to tell them, of that he was sure. But still, something bothered him….

The other _ooman_ vessel, the _Vendetta,_ had offered their assistance, but that was not the way of the warrior. He, and those under him, had seriously miscalculated the danger from the first _ooman_ vessel, and this was the price. If they could have repaired the ship themselves, they would have. But the damage was too great.

But how had the first _ooman_ vessel detected them? He knew their camouflage was perfect; just the very fact that they, themselves had not been directly targeted was indicator enough of that. Instead, the _ooman_ vessel had laid a trap for them. But in order to do so, somebody on board that ship had to have an almost uncanny sense of where they were…..

It bothered him, the way an itch one can't scratch bothers one.

And suddenly, there in the last moments of his life, the Hunt Leader had a flash of insight, an epiphany, the sort that occasionally comes to one at the very end of life. Suddenly, without knowing how he knew, he knew what had happened…and how. His eyes widened, not in fear, for he had made his peace with the Dark Warrior long ago, but in revelation as to what had happened. Suddenly, he knew who—and what—was in command of the _ooman_ vessel, the one that had so damaged them.

Suddenly, he was afraid, not for himself, nor even for the neophyte hunters underneath him, but for the galaxy in general. If his suspicions were real….and he did not doubt but what they were.

His lieutenant, _G'Shande_ (faithful knife), was right by his side, even as he had been ever since the ship had been so damaged. "G'Shande. I've a task for you."

G'Shande didn't have to do anything so primitive as saluting. His very stance indicated his willingness to serve. "Here's what I need you to do…."

The USS _Vendetta:_ Ripley and the bridge crew watched as the alien vessel began to explode. It didn't happen all at once; one part would give way, then another would flare in the vacuum of space. _Won't they launch life-boats?_ —Ripley wondered. But from what she'd been told, that wasn't the way these beings did things.

However, a small pod detached itself from the rapidly-self-destructing ship. It was moving directly towards them, clearly meant to be seen by them. "G'Ten?"

 _{{I am scanning the pod, my captain. There are no signs of life, though there are some odd chemicals. I detect no indications of explosives or other inimical elements. There is no sign of this being a weapon of some sort._

 _And it is moving too slow to be a weapon. What will you have us do, Ripley Ellen Ripley?}}_

More knuckle chewing. "Launch a shuttle and intercept. Take it aboard. I won't risk the ship until I know what's in it." Even as she spoke, the Predator vessel shook and trembled violently, then detonated into the emptiness of space, becoming an expanding sphere of fire, chunks of it bouncing off the _Vendetta's_ shields.

G'Ten T'Shaark himself manned the shuttle to pick up the pod, the only surviving artifact of the alien ship. He had taken it into the shuttle's hold, and opened it, the camera watching his every move, relaying it back to the _Vendetta_. {{ _My captain, this is…interesting.}}_

"Talk to me, G'Ten. What's in the pod?"

G'Ten T'Shaark moved back so the camera could get a better look. He held up what appeared to be an alien version of a spear, with retractable ends. But the other item was of much greater interest.

It was the polished skull of an alien xenomorph. {{ _I believe this says something about those on board that ship.}}_

Ripley leaned back. "It certainly does. Apparently, we're both after the same thing. More or less."

….

Chad Stevenson was about to die.

He'd been a part of the investigation team Weyland-Yutani had sent to see why the rynth herds weren't up to snuff. Well, he'd found out, all right.

They'd been totally unprepared. The alien monsters had descended upon them and swiftly overpowered them, carrying them back to what resembled a small hillock. Except it wasn't a small hill so much as it was a huge nest, constructed out of earth, rock, and what looked like parts of other, man-made shelters. It all was evidently _glued_ together, somehow, reminding him of the nest of termites or ants—but on a much larger scale.

He and the others had been cocooned in the walls and implanted. Already, he could feel the alien larvae—it was obvious what it was—squirming within him, chewing its way out.

His last mental picture was a surreal one: the very monsters who'd killed them holding and examining the weapons he and the others had brought, for all the good it had done them. Looking over the weapons with their eyeless heads.

As he watched, through eyes dimming in death, one of the monsters picked up a rifle and racked the slide, feeding a round into the chamber.

….

The _Perseus:_ Major Forrester had called the company to alert, there in the cargo hold. "Alright, people. Here's what we know: Wey-Yu sent in no less than two investigation teams of their own to see why their precious rynth herds weren't doing so well. Normally, that wouldn't be our problem. But the teams didn't report back, and the remote sensors appear to've been disabled, somehow. That would seem to indicate somebody takin' 'em offline. That sounds like pirates. So we're to go in and find out what happened. If it is pirates….well, 'shoot to kill' has been the policy for over a hundred years, and if it's changed any, nobody's bothered to tell me.

"But whoever—whatever—we're going up against is apparently really good at concealment, so take note. Normally, the remote sensors would at least show an image or two. That hasn't happened. So we have to assume the enemy is at least as tech-savvy as we are. Again, this smells like pirates.

"We'll put you down two clicks away from the last landing point. Expect to be expected, is what I'm saying. It'll be daylight, but remember your heads-up displays, just don't depend on 'em totally. And you have my permission to be as trigger-happy as you wanna be."

….

The _Vendetta:_ Ripley had called a meeting to discuss their findings with the Displaced ship's crew. "Okay, here's what we know. These hunters, these predators, were apparently ambushed by another vessel. We've been following the _Norstromo_. The original plans didn't indicate anything like the sort of weaponry needed to do that, but that could have changed. If the _Norstromo_ is the ship that destroyed the other ship, then obviously it has.

"But we still don't know the _Norstromo's_ intentions, or the plans the android has. I can't figure out why it insists on masquerading as me. There's no reason for that, that I can see. But that's what's happening, and its behavior is…not what I'd expected. What could the android possibly be doing out here, when it should've scooted back to Earth, and Weyand-Yutani's waiting arms? It makes no sense.

"But we do know these hunters were hunting, and every indication we've got indicates their preferred target is the xenomorphs. I can't believe they'd go to all this trouble to nail one that's got to be in cryosleep. How would they even know it was there?

"Anybody have any ideas? Possibilities? Anything?"

The floor hummed and vibrated. {{ _Captain Ripley Ellen Ripley?}}_ It was the Voorm, from Engineering. Ripley understood his(?) species had made superb engineers and technicians before their world was overrun by the monsters. {{ _I can only point out one thing. This android is not acting like the android. Is this not correct?}}_

"Too true. Or, if it is, it's following the most convoluted chain of logic I've ever heard of."

 _{{Then perhaps it is not the android who is in control.}}_

Ripley frowned, and sipped the almost-coffee in front of her. "It's got to be. Or are you saying someone else, some other human agency, perhaps, has somehow hacked the ship?"

 _{{It would make more sense. To take that assumption would free us of trying to second-guess the automaton. The humans—or whoever—have a different agenda.}}_

She nodded. "Okay, I can see it. But why—and how—are they continuing to pretend to be me? What would be the point?"

 _{{You have some official standing in human space. If they are renegades, they have none.}}_

"But, once again, how? None of them ever even _met_ me! They wouldn't know the first thing about…about how to be me. And, once again, what would be the point? I may have some standing, as you say, but it's not enough for them to really profit from this charade." She thought. "No, I don't see how any other human agency could have sneaked and taken control in the elapsed time between when I fought the thing, and when it put in for repairs and resupply."

 _{{If the android is not in control of the_ Norstromo, _and no human agency has had the chance to seize control of the vessel, then we have to ask ourselves who_ _has_ _had the chance. It may be some new agent, though this seems unlikely, as you say.. Or it may be some aspect of the ship's computer, specifically designed for this contingency—but that brings us back to the android.}}_

"That doesn't leave anyone. It has to be an outside agent."

 _{{Not necessarily, Ripley Ellen Ripley. Remember, when you were forcibly ejected from the_ Norstromo, _there was another mind on board that vessel.}}_

"You aren't seriously suggesting what I think you're suggesting?"

 _{{I am saying it is a logical possibility, one we must consider.}}_

Ripley shook her head, a gesture that many humanoid species shared. "Not possible. The xenomorph…it wasn't intelligent. Not like that, anyway. We saw no evidence of any sort of intellect, any sort of mind beyond the animal nature, I mean, in it."

 _{{That you saw no evidence does not mean it was not there. You were fighting for your life, not collecting and examining evidence.}}_

Ripley was silent. The possibility…the theory…would answer some questions. "So…what you're saying is, your theory is that the _xenomorph_ is currently in charge of the _Norstromo?"_

 _{{It is only a theory, my captain. However, the theory that the android is the controlling intelligence seems to be running into some logical difficulties. This one may—may—be more in line with the evidence. And remember, this possibility would perhaps explain why no one has seen the "Captain Ripley of the_ Norstromo." _Although it does not explain the technician who was hired.}}_

"But then, where are the aliens' nests? This ship has visited numerous human worlds, and there's no report of monsters on the loose there. And on one, whoever—whatever—is in charge of the _Norstromo_ actually _warned_ the planet's people about the possibility of being attacked by monsters, these alien hunters we encountered. What possible reason would the xenomorph have for doing that?

 _{{Perhaps to safeguard future prey? If this creature is intelligent, and if it is in control of the ship, it may be planning ahead, seeking out new worlds to plunder, new worlds full of hosts for its larvae. Should the Predators have struck at Erion, then there would be that many less hosts for its eventual offspring.}}_

Ripley had to admit, this notion made a certain amount of sense. But, dammit, she didn't _want_ to believe the thing could be intelligent. If it was just a monster, driven by its biology, then the solution was simple: find it and kill it. Blow it out of space.

But what if it was capable of planning ahead? Of _tactics?_ Humans could be dangerous enough with the proper tactics, and they didn't have the xenomorphs' natural physical advantages.

But it was the mark of a good leader to accept the possibility of hard truths. If there was a strong enough chance that this might be the case…. "Okay. Let's suppose, for the moment, that this is what's happening. Again, why aren't we seeing the thing infesting the worlds it's been to? What's its plan? What _could_ it be?"

G'Ten T'Shaark "spoke" up. {{ _My captain, if this creature is in control of the ship we seek, and if it is intelligent—which I, personally find to be a truly frightening possibility-it may have been disseminating its kind on worlds where such would not be detected readily. Perhaps on worlds with a limited human population. Or no human population. It may have "seeded" several worlds, planning in advance for the eventual arrival of humans._

 _{{But if so, that brings up an even more disturbing possibility.}}_

Ripley leaned back. The Displaced ship was designed for the comfort of many different species, some so strange that humans wouldn't even have recognized them as living beings. It was, very possibly, the most advanced ship of its kind in human space, and certainly the best armed. But the replicators still had a hard time with creating furniture that was truly _comfortable._ "Not sure if I can take any more scary ideas. But go ahead. What do you mean?"

 _{{If they are waiting for the arrival of humans…humans will arrive in ships. Probably armed._

 _{{And they will be delivering such tech into the very claws of the *untranslatable, unpleasant*._

 _{{The humans will be arming these creatures, and providing them with ships.}}_

… _.._

 _To be continued…_


	10. Chapter 10:Converging Fates

AlienX: A Gathering Storm, Chapter 10: Converging Fates

….

 _I don't own the Aliens/Predator franchise._

… _.._

The bridge of the _Vendetta:_ Ripley found herself once again staring at the viewscreens with showed the passing stars. It would be quite relaxing, if she just didn't know the horror that lurked out there.

But she did. She was intimately acquainted with it.

The floor vibrated and buzzed. _{{My captain? Again you cannot sleep?}}_

Ripley rubbed her eyes. She'd never been one for wearing makeup, but in her current position, as captain of the United Space Ship _Vendetta,_ which was crewed entirely by alien beings who'd been evacuated from their own homes and worlds—and families—because of the alien xenomorphs. In this circumstance, the concept of putting on makeup was especially laughable. But she wondered: if the crew were human, would she strive to look her best?

Ripley normally didn't use makeup anyway, considering a needless bother. She'd always felt that way, even back in high school….

Now that was strange. She couldn't remember anything about her high school years. Just her intensive training in order to be assigned the position of Warrant Officer on the _Norstromo._

But….she should remember something about high school.

Well, maybe not. So much had happened since then.

And of course, even if the crew had been human, she had far greater worries than being voted _Ms. Cosmic Queen_ or something stupid like that.

The crew….something about the crew….

"No, G'Ten, I can't. I keep thinking about this situation. The Vooorm is right; we were getting nowhere assuming the android was in control. But the notion of the xenomorph being in charge raises some more questions. Like, how does it pretend to be me? I guess, if we're assuming it's intelligent, and if it has access to the ship's computer—two very big 'ifs'-, it could use some sort of voice changing program or something—but we don't even know if the things communicate by sound, in the first place. If not, there's no reason to believe it would even understand the concept of voice communication. And, once again, why would it pretend to be _me_ , of all people? I just feel like there's some answers there, answers that would answer a lot of questions, and I don't know 'em.

"And even if it could somehow sound like me, how would it get the knowledge to imitate any human, let alone me?"

 _{{You were the last living creature the *untranslatable, unpleasant* encountered. Perhaps it imprinted on you, in some way?}}_

Again, Ripley rubbed her eyes. She was exhausted, but sleep just wouldn't come. "Possibly. I don't know. G'Ten…" She paused. He waited. The centauroid had been an enormous source of strength to her. She honestly didn't know what she would have done without him.

If he were only human…

 _Stop that._

"G'Ten…I'm beginning to lose my memories of my old crew mates. I mean, I remember them, but…it's like it happened a long, long time ago, to someone else."

 _{{You have undergone a great deal of changes, my captain. It is not unheard of for recent memories, especially emotionally charged ones, to replace more distant ones. In this, your people and mine are very similar.}}_

"What about you? I've never heard you talk about your past. How did the xenomorphs enter into your life? Or…" She paused. "I mean, it may be something you don't want to talk about….I would understand if it were."

Now it was G'Ten's turn to pause. _{{No, my captain, I do not mind telling you. I was a student on my world, studying what I suppose you could call sociology, in particular the sociology of other peoples, other races. I had journeyed to several planets, each of which had its own unique—and frequently delightful—culture. I was….happy.}}_ Now he paused for a longer time, his centauroid body language indicating sorrow and loss. _{{Then, one day, when I was visiting the capitol of one of the worlds I had studied on, we lost contact with an outlying village. An investigation team was sent there. They failed to report back. Then a military team was detailed to go straighten the matter out.}}_ He looked up at Ripley. _{{Understand, Ripley Ellen Ripley, at the time, none of us imagined a threat from beyond the stars. The military team also failed to report. And then…the first reports came in, from the outlying suburbs of the capitol. Monsters that attacked people, implanted their seed within them. At first, no one believed it, it was just too, what is the expression? "Far fetched?" Yes, thank you….but we came to believe. Oh, indeed. We came to believe._

 _{{My own people sent in ships to both investigate and assist. One by one, they were overcome. It rapidly became clear that evacuation was our only hope._

 _{{I remember arguing with my best friend about these creatures. They could not exist, I said, they were surely products of the imagination. Nothing could be as terrible, as completely_ _predatory_ _as they were. It was as if someone had taken the worst of all species' nightmares, and removed from them any trace of weakness which could be exploited, to our favor. They had to be the products of someone's imagination, but whose? And why? And, if that were so, who were the real marauders?_

 _{{He believed creatures existed, but thought they could be reasoned with. Surely, they possessed a form of intelligence, even if it were one we were not familiar with. He went off in search of them, to attempt to engage them in negotiations.}}_

"Ouch," said Ripley. "I can imagine how well that went."

 _{{That was the last I heard of him. Then the monsters attacked the outskirts of the capitol…and through the many live camera feeds that ringed the city, we could see for ourselves what we faced._

 _{{My people sent evacuation ships. There weren't enough for all the people, who were desperate, by this time. I was one of the lucky few, chosen primarily because I was of the same race as the ones who sent the rescue ships. I…this has troubled me, ever since. I have wondered…if I did not…run.}}_

Ripley nodded in understanding. G'Ten was suffering "survivor's guilt," even as she, herself was, to a degree.

How would she have felt, if she'd been able to abandon the _Norstromo_ , only to leave behind her old crewmates? To know they'd suffer a fate worse than death? And that this was the price of her survival? "It's a good thing you did survive, G'Ten." He looked up sharply, startled. "I know, for a fact, that had it not been for your help, your encouragement and support, I probably would've given up long ago. We wouldn't be here, in what is probably the best armed warship in known space, hunting the very beings that caused both of us such pain. And we wouldn't have the chance for some payback." She smiled at him. "So…I need you. I'm glad I met you. And I don't know what I would've done without you."

He was silent for a time. Then, _{{I, too, feel gratitude for having known you, Ripley Ellen Ripley. When I first saw you, on board the Displaced ship, I could tell you were determined, but dispirited, so to speak. Unsure which way to go. I wanted to help.}}_

"You did, G'Ten. And you _do._ Don't ever doubt that. And we _will_ get these bastards. I won't stop until we do." Even as she spoke, she realized she'd just spoken her own fate: by all accounts, the xenomorphs had overrun worlds. Did she have what it took to cleanse all these worlds of their horror?

She had what it took to try.

…

"On your left!" Houston shouted at Butch. They'd barely landed when the first swarm of monsters had launched themselves at the platoon.

Already, they'd suffered severe casualties. The creatures had attacked from so close that the marines' firepower virtually exploded them—but that showered anyone nearby with a lethal spray of acid blood. Several more had been overcome; John Houston could still hear their screams echoing in his head

Behind him, covering his back, Butch laid down precise fire. Houston had to admit, when the chips were down, Butch was one he was glad to have at his back. He didn't get nervous, or at least, he didn't seem to, and he made every shot count, not even using the autotargeting mode.

One of the black monstrosities launched itself at Houston, an aerial attack. Houston blasted it, dodging the spray of acid, and quickly resumed scanning around him, with his back to Butch. These things apparently thought in three dimensions; they were capable of attacks from the air as well as from the sides.

The surviving marines formed a circle. "We've got to get back to the shuttle!" Houston directed their attention that way. They had to get back, get away and report. And to report, they had to survive. Which, even given all their firepower, was not looking to be an assured option.

Then he noticed the shuttle's ignition system lighting up. "Hey!" He directed his comm to the lieutenant who'd been assigned to bring them down to the surface. "Hold up! Where ya goin'? We're still down here!" But his broadcast went unacknowledged. " _Perseus_ , this is Houston! Who the frig's in charge of the shuttle?"

" _Corporal Houston, this is Major Forrester. What do you mean, who's in charge? Lieutenant Gallagher stated you were all dead."_

"We will be if that shuttle leaves! What's Gallagher thinking, anyway?"

" _Perseus here. Hold on. We're getting a message from Gallagher."_ There was a pause. _"Vid pickups seem to be out, but he's stating he personally witnessed your deaths. Something's not adding up."_

A flash of insight came to Houston, even as he targeted and fired on another xenomorph. " _Perseus,_ the shuttle's been compromised! _Don't let it dock!"_

Another pause. Then, Major Forrester's voice came back online, broadcasting on the common frequency. _"Perseus to shuttle. Perseus to shuttle. Either turn your vid pickups on or we will open fire. You won't receive another warning."_

The response from the shuttle was immediate. It changed course, heading back down into the lower atmosphere, moving towards the planet's westward side, skipping in and out and through the low-lying areas of the ground, hills and valleys, using it as cover, evading targeting lock-on. It was quickly out of sight.

" _Perseus,_ what happened?"

" _Whoever, or whatever, is flying the shuttle just took off for the other side of the planet. Houston, do you see any sign of any intelligent life? Any humans working with the monsters? For that matter, any life at all besides those…those things? Any survivors?"_

Again, Houston blasted a black form out of the air. He heard Butch laying down fire behind him, and the other marines doing likewise. "No, sir, I don't. Could one of these…things have stolen the shuttle?"

" _If they did, they perfectly mimicked Gallagher's voice. Our readouts read a similarity to twelve dekes. That's better than most machines can do._

" _Hold on. We're sending another shuttle down for you."_

….

The _Vendetta_ : Ripley had come to a decision. "G'Ten, all our information indicates that several worlds have been visited by the _Norstromo,_ several uninhabited worlds. We need to know why, and why those worlds with a human presence appear to have been left alone. Which one's closest to our current position?"

 _To be continued…._


	11. Chapter 11: Stormfront

AlienX: A Gathering Storm, Chapter 11: Stormfront

….

 _I don't own the Alien/Predator franchise_

…

Chapter 11: Stormfront

The first ground-to-space missile caught the _Perseus_ completely unawares. The only shields they had up were the minimum for guarding against space junk. Enough of the blast seeped through to smash into the aft cargo area. _"Who the hell is shooting at us?"_ shouted Forrester. "Eyes! Find out where those things are coming from!" Even as he spoke, another surface-to-space missile hit the damaged troop carrier, knocking out the main drive.

"Sir! We've lost helm control! We can't maintain orbit!"

"Engineering! What's our status?"

" _Drive's out, sir! Most of the techs are dead! I think I'm the only one left!"_

"Grab whoever you can. What can you do?"

" _Pray?"_

….

The USS _Vendetta_ entered the star system just outside the orbit of the sixth planet. Ripley and G'Ten T'Shaark took a moment to compose themselves. Then, Ripley spoke. "Where are we? Did we make it?"

The floor vibrated and hummed. _{{Indeed we did, my captain. Our target star is before us.}}_

"Any damage reported from anyone? Any side effects?" The Vooorm in engineering had, in a previous life, been a famous (or infamous, depending upon who you listened to) inventor, one who had made great strides towards a true, practical faster-than-light drive. Ripley had given him leave to install and test out a prototype on the _Vendetta._ If it worked, it would be an enormous tactical advantage.

In an ideal world, she might would have preferred to run more tests, but they needed every advantage they could rake and scrape together, ASAP. They still hadn't caught up with the _Norstromo_ , and, judging from the rumors of weapons systems purchased on various worlds, that ship could easily be very well armed by the time they found it.

And apparently the drive had worked. Although some crew members reported feelings of nausea from traversing the contorted space it produced, most felt like that may have been psychosomatic in nature. And even if it were not, a little space-sickness was an acceptable trade-off for being able move at faster-than-light speeds, something almost every single species had dreamed of, but had previously thought to be impossible. "Nothing a little Dramamine won't take care of?" said Ripley, with a raised eyebrow.

G'Ten stance indicated puzzlement. _{{Dramamine, my captain?}}_

 _{{Tactical to the bridge! We note a human vessel in a decaying orbit about the third planet! It is under fire from unidentified ground forces!}}_

Ripley settled back into the command chair. "Alright. Battle stations, everybody. Set course for the third planet. Let's see if we can't get there in time to sort things out, lend a hand."

…

The _Perseus_ was in serious trouble. Major Forrester could tell from the readouts—those that still functioned—that it was beyond their ability to repair. The ship was doomed. "All hands to the life boats!"

Immediately, the marines that hadn't already been killed began lining up at whichever life boat dock they'd been assigned. There was no hysteria; they were marines, and this had been part of their training.

But the ship was going down too fast. Not everybody was going to make it off. "Eyes! Have you pinpointed the origin of those missiles?"

"Yessir! A mountainous region to the northwest of where our troops are!"

"Get to your life pod. And give me the controls." As he settled into the pilot's seat, Forrester fixed his eyes on the spot the tactical officer had indicated. His ship was going down, and he was goddam well gonna see to it that it went down right on top of the ones who'd killed it.

Strangely enough, there were no more missiles. Maybe the attackers had run out, or decided to stop firing for their own reasons. Forrester got on the 'comm. "Houston! This ship won't make it. I'm takin' it down right on top of those bastards. That other shuttle ought to be reaching you soon…make the most of it, 'cause it's all you'll have. I'm leaving you in command." And so saying, he gritted teeth, wrestling with the ever-more contrary controls. _Damnyoudamnyoudamnyou-*_

The _Perseus's_ collision with the hidden base could be seen from the _Vendetta,_ still nearly two hundred thousand miles away. Ripley sat absolutely still for a moment. "God in Heaven." She had no doubt but that some good men—and women—had perished in that explosion. And, from the angle of the descent, it was obvious that whoever was in control of the dying ship had deliberately kamikaze'd it right onto one specific area, presumably the spot where the missiles had come from. "G'Ten. Sensors at max. See if anyone survived, and also check for survivors on the planet, as soon as we get within range." The sensors had no problem detecting the _Perseus's_ fiery final destination, but sensing life forms required them to get closer. " _Human_ survivors, I mean."

 _{{Of course, my captain.}}_

…..

"Well, I guess this is an 'OS' moment if there ever was one," muttered Butch. The lone shuttle was coming in for its descent. The marines had fought off the xenomorphs, and made their way to the indicated landing area.

"Maybe not." Houston looked out over his troops. There barely a dozen of them left. But they were marines; it took more than the threat of imminent death to break their spirits. "Awright, people. It's imperative we guard that shuttle. It's our only hope; the _Perseus_ is gone." Privately, he wondered: what good would the shuttle do? There was no place for them to go, now. But never mind; one catastrophe at a time. "Remember how those things swarmed over the last one. That ain't happening this time. How's everybody's ammo?" They checked; stores were beginning to run out. "Make every shot count. And don't forget your autotargeting mode, if you're not sure. How are we on flamers?" Given the acid blood of their opponents, fire seemed like a better choice of weaponry.

The _Vendetta_ entered orbit around the planet, and the sensors began to report in. Although the still-burning wreck of the _Perseus_ blinded the most sensitive of them, still, with filters, they were able to detect the Colonial shuttle descending. "If it's landing, there must be people there for 'em. Tactical! Ready the forward batteries! Use the disruptors only for now. Precision fire…"

 _{{Yes, my captain.}}_ And Ripley could hear the ascending whine as the weapons were charged.

"Now!"

"Awright! Everybody in! Butch! You're with me! Cover our backs!" None too soon; even as he spoke, a black form leaped at them. Flamers caught it and turned it into a falling torch, thrashing on the ground. In the background, Houston could see a literal sea of black, chitinous forms rippling in the gathering dusk. His heart sank as he realized that, even with the shuttle at their backs, they could easily be overwhelmed even now.

The marines hurriedly began boarding the shuttle. "Move it, move it! Keep going, people, keep your heads, but keep moving!" He and Butch hung back, flamers at the ready. _This might be our last stand._ But he wouldn't budge from his spot until everybody was in…

Suddenly, a blast of _something_ went off directly in the ranks of the oncoming monsters. It was as though invisible dynamite charges were going off, picking off the creatures with uncanny precision. The xenomorphs hesitated, their attention drawn to a new, unforeseen enemy.

Houston and Butch used that momentary distraction to dive into the open shuttle door themselves. "Close it! _Close it! And take off!"_

"Uh, where to, sir?" asked the pilot.

"Well, you know what? Anywhere but here sounds good. Just _go._ " Houston had seen the blasts, and, even though the beams were invisible, had recognized them for what they were: covering fire. "Somebody up there likes us. Let's go say 'thanks.'"

….

 _{{The human shuttle is departing from the planet's surface, my captain.}}_

"Good." She spoke to the communications officer, a post-motile form of life that had to be wheeled into its niche. When personal movement is denied you, due to shifting biology, communication with others becomes almost a religious experience; one takes it _very_ seriously. And gets very good at it. "Establish communications with the shuttle." She switched on the mike on her chair. "This is the United Space Ship _Vendetta_ to human shuttle. Come in, human shuttle."

"' _Vendetta'? This is Corporal John Houston. Thank you for your assistance, but please understand, I have to ask: kindly turn on your vid pickups."_

"We will do so." She opened a video link. "This is a ship of the Displaced, those who've lost worlds to the very creatures you just fought. Our name is not by accident. As you can see, I, personally, am human. My name is Ellen Ripley, former Warrant Officer of the _Norstromo_."

….

The _Vendetta was_ big enough to permit the shuttle to land in its cargo bay, but only barely. It had originally be designed as a cruise ship, a vacation barge for some very wealthy individuals. Ripley now blessed that peculiar quirk of psychology, evidently not unique to humans, that caused the rich to want the biggest and the best toys. The _Vendetta_ might've started out life as a rich being's toy, but it had been repurposed for a very different, and far more lethal, assignment.

The shuttle docked in the cargo bay, and the marines emerged cautiously. Ripley was there to greet them, alone, having instructed the rest of the crew to remain out of sight until she could explain a ship full of alien beings. That would require some diplomacy, as well as easing the tensions of the marines, who were still armed and ready to do battle. Anything nonhuman could easily set them off.

The first to emerge was a trim, fit man in his late twenties, with close-cropped brown hair, and a uniform that, in spite of all he'd been through, still looked parade-ready. He carried his weapon—a flamer—at the ready, but with the nozzle up, not pointing at anybody. Ripley noticed a somewhat beefier blond man with him, hanging back and looking around. Making sure there were no surprises. _Good, good._

She _needed_ men like that.

She strode up to them. "I'm Captain Ellen Ripley, and this is the Displaced ship _Vendetta._ On behalf of us all, I welcome you."

"O—kay," replied the marine. "I'm Corporal John Houston, and this is Corporal Butch Hargeson, Colonial Marine Forces. If I'm not mistaken, we owe you our lives."

"Yes, you do. And I know you have many questions. I'll be happy to answer all I can. But first, I want to assure you that your weapons are not needed here. This ship is crewed primarily by alien species from worlds which have been overrun by the very creatures you just fought, so don't be alarmed at some of the strange shapes you may see. Everybody here is a person, though not all are individuals. I guess what I'm saying is, you may stand down. Let us tend to your wounded, and in the process, I can begin answering your questions."

Later: Houston was shaking his head. It was one thing to think that the monsters they'd fought were all over the world they'd just left, but to learn they had overrun many other worlds? That was like doomsday squared. "So…what's going on? How are these things getting around?"

Ripley told them her story of how she—and others—had fought the xenomorph on board the _Norstromo._ "And we don't know, exactly, who or what is in charge of the ship now. At first, I was sure it was the android, Ashe, but nothing the ship's done has been in line with any theories of logic patterns the thing might be programmed with."

"So you think, that _monster_ is in control? But how?" Then he remembered: the stolen shuttle, back on the planet…."Lieutenant Gallagher" telling the _Perseus_ that he'd witnessed their deaths…how that shuttle had almost docked with the _Perseus_ , and was turned away at the last minute. "Jesus. If those things can imitate humans so well…."

"From what we've seen so far, the purpose of the _Norstromo_ appears to be to spread the xenomorphs. That would fit in with the xenomorph being in control. But I can't figure out why it's pretending to be _me._ "

"Could be anything." Butch spoke up for the first time. The trio were currently in the small commissary that served the _Vendetta's_ varied crew. Several marines had suffered severe acid burns, and one had had a very close call from a xenomorph's stabbing tail. Too close, actually; it had penetrated his upper thigh, and the medical staff were working to keep down the risk of infection. "Could be anything," he said again, stuffing a sweet cake into his mouth. "I mean, it's an alien. Nonhuman thought patterns. We might never be able to understand it."

"Yet it's acted in a logical, controlled manner, even hiring a mechanic to repair and modify the ship. I only hope he's still alive…or maybe I shouldn't. If he is, he's almost certainly helped spread those things, though whether or not he knew what he was doing, I've no clue." She made a face as she sipped on her pseudo-coffee. "I'd much prefer to think he didn't."

…..

The _Norstromo:_ Cedric was just finishing up on the modifications Ripley had wanted him to make. One of them was to build a modification of the handler he'd used to load the C-Plus cannon, one that would be usable by remote control from the bridge. He smirked slightly. Was the cap trying to make him obsolete? Well, that wasn't as much of a concern as it used to be. He'd accumulated enough credits to make a fresh start on any inhabited world they came across.

" _Mr. Siraq? I've been doing some thinking. Have you given any thought to what you might do once you leave my employ?"_

So she _had._ "Nothing written in stone. Cap, as long as you need me, I'm here. Those poor schmucks back on that other world….they didn't have a chance. I might not be able to blow up Weyland-Yutani—much as I'd like to—but I _can_ blow those bastards right out of the stars."

" _Vengeance can be a powerful motivator. And you are right: those humans really didn't have a chance. But fair fights seem to be the exception, rather than the rule, out here, among the stars."_

"Thinking of getting rid of me, boss?"

" _More like considering your future. As I know you are aware of, you've accumulated a substantial amount of credits. You could do nicely on any civilized world we may come across. Have you given thought to this?"_

He sighed. He'd been playing Solitaire, with Jones watching him from the corner of the room, obviously wondering what the stupid human found so fascinating about pieces of cardboard. "Yeah, boss. If you don't need me anymore, I suppose the next landfall we make, we could go our separate ways."

" _We—both of us, of course—will choose the planet carefully. There would be little point in setting you down on some planet with connections to that casino owner you ran afoul of…."_

"Uh, boss? I know I'm not supposed to ask questions an' all, but...are you sure you can, I dunno, get by? I mean...there still might be supplies to get, things like that. I know you have your reasons for not doing it yourself..."

 _"Why, Mr. Siraq. You almost sound as though you're concerned about me."_

"Well...understand, I'm not trying to insult you, or imply you _can_ 't get along without me, but...well..." Truth was, over the months they'd been together, Siraq had come to consider the unseen captain of the _Norstromo_ as as much friend as employer.

 _"I'm not insulted. You're concern is appreciated, but I assure you I-and Jones-will be fine. But this ship will be going beyond human space shortly, so perhaps the time has come to see about your 'retirement.' And your friend the casino owner does not strike me as one to let bygones be bygones."_

"Boss Cargo and his goons can go suck hard vacuum. I'm not about to live my life looking fearfully over my shoulder for his creeps."

" _I've little doubt but that you could take care of yourself. But there's no point in asking for trouble, especially when there are many options available to you. So…some careful consideration is, I think, called for. After all,"_ said the disembodied voice, and, once again, Siraq could swear he heard a smile in the captain's voice, " _what with all you done for me, s_ _imply ejecting you from the ship seems….impolite."_

 _To be continued…._


	12. Chapter 12: Twenty Questions

AlienX: A Gathering Storm: Chapter 12: Twenty Questions

… _.._

 _I don't own the Aliens / Predator franchise. Of course._

… _._

Chapter 12: Twenty Questions

Siraq walked out of the bank's lobby feeling very pleased with himself. He'd just received his payment from Ripley, and, although she hadn't posted his final paycheck yet, he was confident that she would. She'd never missed a payment yet.

Now, he wondered, what to do with his new-found wealth? True, he wasn't fabulously wealthy, but he was well off. If he took care of the credits, they should easily last him long enough to find some other line of employment. _(And stay out of the casinos,_ he told himself.) Who knows? He might even start his own business. He could now afford to do that.

….

The _Vendetta:_ _{{My captain?}}_

"Yes, G'Ten?" Ripley had once again been lounging, for lack of a better term, in the command chair of the ship. The moving mosaic of stars fascinated her. Ever since the Vooorm had installed the FTL drive, she'd found it incredibly…soothing, was perhaps the best word. They were actually getting somewhere. And at the end of their journey would be a dead xenomorph. Hopefully more than one.

But Ripley had found herself wondering about that last part. The creatures had overrun many worlds…what to do about them? Short of sterilizing or destroying the planets they'd infested, she didn't know.

She'd already put the Vooorm to work to try to come up with something at bit less drastic that would rid those worlds of the monsters, but so far, he'd not come up with anything really useful. "Yes, G'Ten?"

 _{{Our hyperradio scans of your people's communications have informed us that the_ Norstromo _has made planet fall on a world known as New Devonshire. It is not known if it is still there. What are your orders?}}_

Immediately, Ripley sat forward in her seat. "Set course for New Devonshire at once."

….

New Devonshire: Siraq was making his final run through the _Norstromo_ , to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything. He'd already secured his "souvenirs," as the captain insisted upon calling them, the weapons he'd taken from the hunter aliens on a world so far away now. While they didn't exactly inspire really positive feelings in him, he nonetheless felt an irrational rush when he thought about that one alien that he'd killed. Siraq wasn't a killer by nature, but those things had murdered innocent humans in cold blood, and taken their heads as trophies. They were due some payback. Who knew? Perhaps someday, he'd show his grandkids those strange, alien weapons, and explain how he'd come by them.

" _Well, Mr. Siraq? Haven't left anything behind?"_

"No, boss, I'm good to go." He stood momentarily in the hatch to the ramp leading outside. "I'd offer to shake your hand, but…"

" _Yes, I know. That's perfectly alright. I just appreciate everything you've done for me…and for generations yet to come."_ Once again, it seemed to Siraq that Ripley was somehow involved in the whole colonization effort, but how? She didn't have any connections to Weyland-Yutani, and he didn't know of any other agencies that were pushing the outward movement of the human species. _"You may rest assured that together, we've dealt a major blow to Weyland-Yutani, and its interstellar concerns. I realize this does not bring back your people, but it is the best we could do."_

"Thanks, boss. I know…well, some things you don't forget, and I wouldn't want to. But now…maybe things will be better." _Maybe the nightmares will stop._

" _Perhaps. Well, I've just received my flight plan, and must be about business. I have…appreciated your company, and I know Jones has, too. Do take care of yourself, and I know you don't need to be told to avoid any dealings with anything this 'Boss Cargo' has any influence with. The same could be said of Wey-Yu."_

"Thanks, Cap. Well, uh…." This was kinda awkward. "I'll….I'll be going along." _I'll miss you, Cap. Even though we never met, face to face, I feel like I know you. Sorta._ And he left the ship, walking down the catwalk, looking around with senses honed by years of living on the streets. He'd already predicted Ripley's advice, and his credits were in a  very secure account, one untouchable by Boss Cargo or his people, and (hopefully), untouchable by Weyland-Yutani. Of course, he realized, in light of the latter, anonymity was his best defense. As long as Wey-Yu didn't know he'd contributed to the "tweaking" of the biospheres on its targeted worlds, there was no reason to put their hounds on his trail.

Idly, he wondered just what that "tweaking" had done. Ripley had said it would make the biosphere more habitable for future generations, but not so much for the rynth. He could see how that would definitely cut into WY's profits, and that pleased him no end. Sometimes, the best revenge is just a little bit here, and a little bit there. Big changes were for tri-D.

….

Earth: Charles Bishop Weyland the Third was fit to be tied, as the old expression went.

He'd sent out no less than nine discovery teams, some to different worlds, some to the same worlds where communication had been lost. All had ceased to report, and the security cameras placed in and around the ships had not produced any usable information. This had all the signs of some sort of deliberate planning.

Had someone in his organization subverted his plans from within? Was there a traitor in his midst? First, the _Norstromo_ had failed to report. He'd heard rumors that a ship matching that description had been seen at various fringe worlds. If that was the case, someone on the ship was screwing with him, and one thing you did not do was screw with Charles Bishop Weyland III.

But who? He'd clearly given orders for the android to be programmed to perfection. It was supposed to bring back Xenomorph XX121. The ship's crew was considered expendable, with one exception, of course.

But that hadn't happened, and now he couldn't understand why. If the crew had been able to overpower either the xenomorph and / or the android, there was nothing to stop them from simply returning as close to their scheduled time as they could. Why hang around on the fringe?

And if the _xenomorph_ had won out, well, there would be nothing more to be heard of from the ship at all. This business of slipping in and out, always just ahead of the authorities in his pocket, made no sense.

Could _pirates_ have hijacked the vessel? That seemed the most likely. But if so, why, again, the occasional sighting? Most pirates stayed alive by not showing themselves, except in a flurry of gunfire. Again, it made no sense.

He'd run the scenario through the computers endlessly, trying to come up with a rational explanation. He hadn't found one yet. Most of the time, the readouts simply said, "Incomplete information." That didn't help.

It had been four Earth months since he'd delegated his underling the authority to investigate the dismal reports on the rynth herds. In those months, each of the worlds to which he'd sent investigative teams had proved to be a ship trap. He'd ordered fly-by drones, but they'd revealed nothing.

And now, the _Perseus_ had vanished from the face of existence, it seemed. A Colonial Marine troop carrier, one carrying _Colonial Marines_ , of all things? What the stars was going on? And he was still no closer to finding any answers than before.

Charles Weyland was a creature of pure business, but he did not lack for courage. If his employees couldn't find the answers he needed… He flicked on the "intercom" button on his desk. "Sharon? Ready another investigative team. And this time…this time find me some ex-marines looking for a high-paying job."

…

New Devonshire: Siraq was walking down the street, unconsciously comparing it to the crowded, dirty conditions on Orpheus, as he remembered it. Maybe someday he'd forget, but he doubted it.

Painful memories are so often constant companions, albeit unwanted.

There were several outdoor café's along the street, and it wasn't crowded. He'd just come from grocery shopping, and his groceries, for which he'd shopped and paid electronically, would be delivered to his apartment soon. All he had to do was put them up.

But meanwhile, he was just enjoying the sunset. The lights of the city were just then starting to glow, and he could make out the first stars of the evening. He wondered how Ripley was doing, and where she was. Going beyond human space? What could possibly be out there?

"Mr. Siraq?" A very polite male voice spoke up behind him. Instantly, Siraq was on his guard. He hadn't advertised his presence here…

The man who addressed him was a youngish sort, a tall man with close cropped brown hair. Even though he was wearing civilian clothes, he positively radiated "cop." Or something similar. "Yes?"

"My name is John Houston. I wonder if I might have a moment of your time."

Siraq looked around without looking away, a knack he'd developed on the streets of Orpheus and Boss Cargo's world. "What's this all about?"

"I just have some questions to ask you. And no, I'm not a police officer. Just someone who'd like to know a few things. Unofficially, of course."

"Well, 'unofficially, of course,' I have to get home and accept delivery on my groceries, so I don't think I have time for twenty questions." He turned to go, keeping the man in sight, his pistols up under his sleeve, ready.

"It really won't take long. I understand your suspicions, so how about this: you choose the place. Anywhere you like." He gestured expansively, his face still unreadable.

Siraq's eyes narrowed. He recognized the military type. This man wasn't going to quit; a simple refusal on his part would just bring about a stronger "request." Well, perhaps if he seemed to cooperate…. "Tell you what. If your buddy over there's buying," he waved his arm towards another man, a somewhat larger man, sitting, casually, at one of the outdoor tables, "how about right there?"

John Houston smiled. The man's street smarts were impressive. "Of course."

…..

Although Weyland couldn't know it, at least one of his investigative teams had, in fact, found out the precise reason for the failure of the rynth herds. Unfortunately for them, all of their surviving members were cocooned within the xenomorphs' nest, already implanted with future generations of xenomorphs.

The team leader was first to give unholy "birth," but just before he died, he saw the black, chitinous monsters that had so easily overwhelmed them gathered around a collection of the weapons they'd brought with them, weapons that had turned out to be of no use whatsoever. As he watched, one of the monsters picked up a carbine, examined it with its eyeless head, turning it over and over, then reached up and racked the slide, charging the weapon.

Life faded in a geyser of pain and blood.

He wasn't alive to hear it, and wouldn't have been able to understand it had he been alive, but the monster that charged the weapon hissed at its companions: _Self-lubricating ceramo-metallic contact surfaces._

Another one, also examining one of the rifles, hissed: _hundred-round helical feed magazines._

And a third one, with an unnerving drawing back of its lips, exposing the double jaw: _Niiiiice._

 _To be continued…_


	13. Chapter 13: Getting to Know You

AlienX: A Gathering Storm, Chapter 13: Getting to Know You

…

 _Nope. Still don't own the Aliens/Predator franchise. Maybe someday…_

… _.._

Chapter 13: Getting to Know You

The yautja ship, whose name would translate roughly into "Pathwalker," entered the space claimed, in their usual egocentric way, by the _oomans_. The Hunt Leader, an experienced (even by yautja standards) and battle-hardened warrior, one K'shandel'ay ("Sharpened Spear"), had specifically requested a cadre of experienced, blooded hunters along with the usual complement of neophytes. Something was happening here, in this part of the galaxy, that had drawn their attention. Something of such serious nature that one of the yautja's more advanced ships, equivalent to a human destroyer, had been dispatched to investigate. This was an information gathering mission, not a hunt-training one. Though, of course, there was no logical reason to deny the students the opportunity to learn.

Several yautja vessels had gone missing in this part of the galaxy, and the Elders felt it best to find out why. Only fools fought on in ignorance. The individual battle might come down to one on one, with courage and skill, but to simply bull ahead blindly was not the Way. Though it was a good way to die. If that were one's goal.

Now he heard rumors of several _ooman_ ships also disappearing in the same zones. He didn't doubt for a moment but that they were connected, somehow.

So he delegated several of his most experienced warriors to determining the pattern, if there was one. While the yautja had computers far in advance of anything available to humans, K'shandel'ay put more confidence in the feelings and intuitions of those warriors who'd faced battle after battle, and lived to tell about it.

…

"So. Here we are." Cedric Siraq looked across the table at the two soldiers—he had no doubt but that that's what they were—and examined them in the same way he'd examine any enemy: very carefully.

"Yes, sir. We'd just like to ask you a few questions, and, in return, we'll be happy to answer your own. Is that agreeable to you?"

"Mm-hmm." He was still trying to figure out what his questions would be. What was all this about? These guys weren't cops. So what could they possibly be after….?

"Your last employment was on the _Norstromo,_ was it not?"

"That's right." It would be pointless to deny that, it being a matter of public knowledge. Of course, that might be it: Boss Cargo's influence could, in theory, reach even this far. And Weyland-Yutani's certainly did….he found himself tensing up.  
"What did you think of the ship's captain?"

"Who, Ripley? Good captain. Fair. Paid on time. 'Bout all I could ask of a captain."

"What did she look like?"

"Look, what the hell kinda question is that, anyway?" Houston was silent. "I never actually met her. Found her profile online, but she never came out of the forward part of the ship."

"Never saw her on the intercom?"

"No. Why is that important to you?"

"So you just blindly followed a paycheck?"

Siraq was getting more annoyed by the minute. "I'm not _that_ much of a fool. I ran a voice analysis. Just in case somebody was tryin' to play me for a fool. But it checked out."

"Let me guess: to twelve decimal places, right?"

Siraq's eyes narrowed even more. "And you know that exactly how?"

The man who'd identified himself as John Houston leaned forward. "Mr. Siraq, I'll be blunt with you. We think—I personally hope, anyway—that you were duped. I'd like to believe that, for reasons I'll explain shortly. However, before I do, I need to ask you something." He drew forth, from his pocket, a sketch of one of the biopackages Ripley had had him seed worlds with. "Does this look familiar?"

Siraq stared, amazed. There was no way these people could possibly know about the biopackages. "Yeah. The Cap and me….we…" He caught himself just in time. No need to incriminate himself. "Let's just say I've seen things like them before. Why?"

"Mr. Siraq….do you know what those are?"

"Sure. They're biological geoforming biopackages, designed to alter the atmosphere of Earth-like worlds, make 'em more livable for people, eliminate allergens, harmful bacteria and viruses, that sort of thing. 'Sposed to even make people more…fertile, if you get my drift." He shrugged, handing the sketch back to Houston. "At least," he said, warily, "That's what I've been given to understand."

Houston looked at his larger colleague. "Well, Butch?"

The one called Butch stopped stuffing a sweetcake into his mouth long enough to direct his attention to a thumb-sized device in his palm. He nodded. "Heartbeat, respiration, skin conductivity, pupillary contraction, alpha-rhythm brain wave activity…all consistent with someone telling the truth as he knows it. He doesn't trust us, of course. No big." He tossed down the remainder of his drink. "There's days _I_ wouldn't trust me either."

Houston folded the sketch back up, his face solemn. "Mr. Siraq, you've just saved your life today, without even knowing it. Aside from the fact that you are currently in the crosshairs of one of the finest snipers it's ever been my privilege to know, my friend and I were quite prepared to break every bone in your body twice over before killing you. Oh, and I know all about those automatics you've got concealed up your sleeves. They wouldn't have saved you, I promise.

"We're Colonial marines, Mr. Siraq. Killing is what we _do._ "

Siraq took a minute to digest that. "Alright. If I recall correctly, you said you'd answer my questions, too. That still hold?"

"It does. But I think I'll let our Captain answer your questions. I think it'll be more effective that way."

Siraq narrowed his eyes at them. "Then you may as well go ahead an' shoot, 'cause you ain't gettin' me on your ship. Not in one piece."

"Wouldn't dream of it. Our captain is standing right behind you." He nodded at someone behind Siraq.

Siraq stood and turned, trying not to whirl around. In front of him was a tall, handsome woman with dark, short-cropped hair, a strong chin and clear brown eyes. Her features promised not only high intelligence, but a fierce determination as well. And she looked awfully familiar….he'd seen her, or her likeness, somewhere before…

"How do you do, Mr. Siraq. I'm Ellen Ripley, Captain of the United Starship _Vendetta._ I don't believe we've had the pleasure of meeting."

 _To be continued…_


	14. Chapter 14: Trial

AlienX: A Gathering Storm, Chapter 14: Trial

…

 _Don't own, you know._

… _.._

Chapter 14: Trial

….

"Oooooookay," said Siraq cautiously, "I can take a joke as well as the next guy. So. You're Ripley. Or so you tell me."

"That's right."

"And captain of which ship now? I'm a little confused, here."

"The _Vendetta._ "

"Never heard of it."

"Let's just say it's new."

 _Cut to the chase._ He was acutely aware of these men, these colonial Marines sitting beside him, but suddenly, their presence, and their threat, both implied and specific, were of secondary importance. "Prove you're Ripley."

The woman in front of him shrugged as she took a seat across the table from him, crossing her legs as she sat down. "Prove it yourself. You've got your tablet; you ran a voice analysis before. Do so again." He could hear the challenge in her voice.

"Alright. I will." He pulled out his tablet, and punched up the vo-rec program. "Here. Say somethin'."

"My name is Ellen Ripley, Captain of the United Starship _Vendetta,_ formerly Warrant Officer of the _Norstromo."_

"Okay, that oughtta do it…." He fiddled with the virtual controls…. "Okay. You check out. Voice pattern analysis says you're you."

"To how many decimals?"

He glanced at the tablet again. "At least twelve. Look, what's all this supposed to prove? If you _are_ Ellen Ripley, then you know where I've been the past few months. You hired me. What's with all this?"

"Mr. Siraq. You were hired by the captain of the _Norstromo,_ it's true. But you were not hired by me. We've never met, until now.

"The…being that hired you was posing as me. I don't know why, but it was, and it was evidently able to simulate the sound of my voice out to twelve decimals. But apparently that was all. You never saw it, you never had any other dealings with it—aside from your business dealings, I mean—all you had to go by was a voice over the intercom. I'm telling you that voice was not mine."

Siraq sipped his drink, still waiting for his chance. These people were either crazy or running some kind of con. Either way, he wanted no part of them. But how to get away? Like the one called John Houston had said, they were colonial Marines. You didn't just get up and walk away from the table with them. Not if they didn't want you to.

"Alright. Whose was it?"

"If our suspicions are right, that is…difficult to explain here, in public. We have some vid files you need to see, but bringing them here, showing them in the open, could easily attract the attention of the wrong people. People like Weyland-Yutani."

At the mention of the megacorporation's name, Siraq felt something inside him ignite. "Okay, I'll grant you one thing: you know a button to push on me. You know one thing that sets me off. But that doesn't prove you are who you're saying you are; in fact, it would tend to prove the opposite.

"Captain Ripley— _my_ Captain Ripley—knew about my…world, and what had happened there. Now, it seems you do, too, or at least have a good inkling. How does that prove you're not her?"

"Orpheus," said the one called Butch, pausing in his apparent sweetcake-eating contest. "Had a second cousin to go missing there when everything went to hell. Family got together. We searched. And we found her." He scowled, an expression that looked out of place on his face. "We found what was left of her." Another scowl. "That was one reason I joined the Marines. 'Travel to exotic distant ports! Meet exciting new people! And shoot them.'"

Siraq almost grinned. Instead, he composed himself. "Alright. Cards on the table. Just precisely what do you want from me?"

Ripley spoke up. "We have some…video files you need to see. I can't bring them here, out in the open, for just anyone to see, lest the wrong people see them. You'll have to come back to the ship with us to see them."

"Thanks but no thanks. I don't know what's on these video files, an' I don't much care. I'm reasonably sure it's got nothing to do with me, so why should I put myself in your web?"

"You misunderstand, Mr. Siraq," said Ripley, calmly. "I wasn't making a request." At that exact moment, he felt a sharp sting on the back of his neck. _Needler dart! Damn….!_ Consciousness faded.

….

He came to on a small bunk bed in a room barely big enough it for it. He sat up and looked around the room. Even though he already knew the answer, he reflexively checked for his weapons. They were gone.

He looked about the room. A rest room, complete with a shower and toilet, opened to his right. Directly across from him was a door….but he'd never seen a door consisting of two interlacing triangles that opened (should they do so) into a rather strangely shaped egress. Like a double triangle.

Of course, he knew it would be locked. Just as he also knew they were watching him. "Okay. Since you put it that way, I accept your kind invitation." He couldn't keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

" _Welcome to the Vendetta, Mr. Siraq. We're waiting for you just down the hallway."_

He got up and approached the odd-looking door. It immediately _swished_ open, and the progressing LED lights led him down hallway to his right. They led him to another one of those strange doors. _Swishing_ open, it revealed what appeared to be a kind of commissary, with tables set up at intervals around the wall. What drew his attention wasn't so much the tables themselves—a table is a table—but the chairs, or pieces of furniture assigned to them that seemed to serve the same purpose. Most of them didn't look like they were designed for human beings.

Even as he entered, he couldn't help but notice that this ship, what he'd seen of it, was awfully advanced, technologically speaking. While he'd been on, worked on, and traveled on, a number of human ships, this one was….pretty damned cutting edge, to put it mildly.

Ripley and her two soldiers were waiting for him at one large table over by what appeared to be a window, but which his common sense told him was probably a live video feed from external cameras. He crossed over to them, and, as he did so, happened to notice a fourth person just then joining the group.

He stopped and stared. The other newcomer was a centauroid type of being, but with an upper torso covered in thick fur. The spherical head sported two eyes, two ears, a slit for a nose and another for, he presumed, a mouth.

Like most humans, Siraq had never seen a true alien before. He found himself staring.

"Mr. Siraq?" Ripley's voice penetrated his mild shock, bringing him back to reality. "Please. Come have a seat." She indicated a chair—a real, human-style chair—across from her. Mechanically, still staring at the alien, he sat down at the table. "I'd like to introduce you to G'Ten T'Shaark," she said, carefully pronouncing the alien name. "Don't bother saying 'hello.' He can't understand you, any more than you could him."

With an effort, Siraq tore his eyes away from G'Ten. "So….how do we communicate? Sign language?"

"Indeed not. Be patient. There is a translator built into the flooring of this facility; you may notice some small side effects." Even as she spoke, he could feel a kind of dull headache come over the back of his head, and a strange humming that he knew was only in his mind.

"Hey, if you're reading my mind, I get royalties."

She smiled. "We're not reading anyone's mind. But your subvocalized thoughts can now be understood by G'Ten, even as his can be to you. _Now_ you can say 'hello.'"

 _May as well play along with it._ "Erm. Hello. Howarya?"

He was surprised to "hear" the response in this mind, as though the words had been spoken. _{{Hello to you, too, Mr. Siraq. Unfortunately I am unfamiliar with the term 'howarya.'_

 _{{However, I recognize that the manner of our meeting could be better.}}_

"Yeah, kidnapping is usually the wrong way to go about it. Unless this is more of a shanghaiing? In which case I could suggest a better model for employee acquisition."

"It's nothing like that, Mr. Siraq." He noticed the two soldiers' eyes hadn't left him since he came in. That sixth sense that had kept him alive on the street now warned him that he was being measured. "But we did need you here." She produced the drawing of biopackages he'd seen earlier. "You know what these are?"

"Sure. I've already told you. They're geoforming biological packages. I don't know how they work; I'm a tech guy, not bio. But they're supposed to tweak the biosphere of already habitable planets, make 'em better. Or so I was told.

"From the amount of grief you're giving me over 'em, I gather you've a different story?"

Ripley looked up at the alien, G'Ten, who'd not moved since he joined the group. Siraq wondered how the alien sat. Or did he just continue to stand? "G'Ten? Let's show Mr. Siraq what we've seen."

The alien known as G'Ten T'Shaark placed a small holoprojector on the table in front of them. _{{This is a compilation of the body cams from the surviving Marines on one of the worlds you visited in the recent past.}}_

Siraq sat quietly as the scenes of carnage were played out. Inwardly, he shuddered; these things were bugs, not people. They might be intelligent bugs, but….

…..and that's if he wasn't being sold a bill of goods.

He turned it over in his mind, even as the Marines in the projection screamed and died. This wasn't real. It couldn't be. Nothing could be that….predatory.

On the other hand, he couldn't deny there was no reason to lie to him. They already knew the worlds the _Norstromo_ had visited, obviously. He had been on the ship, there was no denying that. So what purpose could be fulfilled by making him believe in monsters?

If it was Boss Cargo, he wouldn't have gone to this much trouble. Siraq would simply have awakened minus some important body parts, which would be sold on the black market for whatever they'd bring. That is, if he woke up at all.

If it was Weyland-Yutani, he was already in their clutches. There was no need for subterfuge. But…..

…..as far as he knew, Weyland-Yutani had no dealings with any sort of alien beings such as G'Ten. So again, what would be the point of all this?

"Well, Mr. Siraq?" It might have been Siraq's imagination, but it seemed as though the two Marines tensed slightly, as she spoke.

"You're telling me," he began, "that…the cap—I mean, the _Norstromo_ —seeded these worlds with….these things?"

"No, Mr. Siraq. I'm telling you _you_ seeded these worlds with these things. Those 'biopackages' were the eggs of the black monsters you saw. Did you or did you not unload a number of such objects," here, she gestured towards the drawing, there on the table before them, "on each of the worlds you visited?"

He frowned, still searching for some advantage. These people were dangerous, in more than one sense of the word. "Not all. There were worlds where we stopped for repairs, or…." He started, with the memory. "…And one where the cap wanted me to find out why the scientists had stopped reporting. How does that square with…." He pointed to the still-playing 3D image, suspended in midair, depicting its awful carnage, "….that?"

"We don't know that yet. And, I know there are….inconsistencies with all this. But on this world," she nodded towards the projection, "apparently _something_ hijacked the return shuttle and damn near made it back to the main ship. Something that imitated the voice of the pilot. Out to twelve decimal places. Sound familiar?"

"Alright," he said, leaning back, and glancing at the two Marines. Could he take them?

Not a chance in hell.

"What exactly, are you saying, then?"

"Basically? Best case scenario: you were duped. I don't know how, but one of those monsters, the one I fought on the _Norstromo_ originally, was able to simulate the sound of my voice well enough to fool even machines designed to recognize voice patterns. You were never hired by a human being, Mr. Siraq. The entire time you were on the _Norstromo_ , one of those _things_ was in command, and giving the orders. Giving _you_ orders. You helped it spread misery and death throughout the stars."

He shook his head. "I don't see it. Even, even if I bought all this….the cap was, was…too much of a _person._ I mean, yeah, okay, voice simulations. Possible. I can see it. But it takes more than a voice to, to simulate a _person._ How could it pretend to be human…all those months? The cap even sent back a warning to that one world, about those Hunter aliens you mentioned. Why? If she was the monster you claim, why bother?"

"As I said, there are inconsistencies. It's quite possible it did that for your benefit, to further its role-playing to you."

"So what exactly are you wanting from me? Even supposing I buy all this….this stuff….what exactly are you saying?"

The three humans exchanged glances. Then the man who'd identified himself as John Houston said, "Mr. Siraq, knowingly or not, you are, technically, guilty of helping to spread these things. We're trying to figure out what to do with you.

"In other words, whether you live or die."

 _To be continued…._


	15. Chapter 15: Responsibility

AlienX: A Gathering Storm, Chapter 15: Responsibility

….

 _The Alien and Alien vs. Predator franchises are not owned by me. If they were, it'd be a weekly series. Maybe on AMC._

…

Chapter 15: Responsibility

Siraq sat very quietly in his chair there in the alien commissary, taking in what he'd just heard. He had no doubt but that the Marines on either side of him were more than capable of killing him at a moment's notice. "So," he said, keeping his voice as calm as he could, "what's the verdict? Guilty or not guilty? Don't keep me waiting; I'm a busy man."

"Yes, you certainly have been. It never occurred to you to wonder about these 'biopackages'?"

"One of the job requirements was, and I quote, 'no questions.' So, yeah, I _wondered_ , alright, but when you got creditors threatening to remove body parts, you got other, more immediate concerns." He glanced around, as casually as he could. There had to be some way out of here, away from these dangerous people.

Ripley hunched forward slightly, her gaze intensifying. "Mr. Siraq, let me clear up one thing that's probably going through your mind right now. You are on board a ship crewed entirely by people who've lost friends, family, loved ones, in some cases, whole worlds to the very monsters you've helped spread, whether knowingly or not." She nodded at the Marines flanking her. "These soldiers aren't here to protect me. I can take care of myself.

"They're here to protect _you._ "

….

The yautja ship _Pathwalker_ nosed into the star system where the trail of its sister ship led. The sensors told much of the tale: exploded debris from the earlier ship intermixed with shards of asteroidal rock still highly agitated by the energy from the C-plus cannon. While this information was only partial, due to the nature of space catastrophes, K'Shandel'ay's expert eyes could read what had happened. Like the Alpha Hunt leader before him, he recognized the maneuverings of the _ooman_ vessel…pity the Alpha Hunt leader had not seen them sooner. But that was what experience was for. The yautja had simply been outmaneuvered, strategically. It was a tactic worthy and reminiscent of the _oomans_ , who were renowned, even among the predatory yautja, for their strategies….but something about it didn't seem quite right. He couldn't put his claw on it….

…

"Well, _that's_ sure to set my mind at ease," remarked Siraq, dryly. "I'm on board ship full of critters who want to skin me alive. And this is supposed to be better than the ship I left? How?" Truth was, he was seeking some way of not betraying his former captain. Had she really been a monster? He'd seen no indication of it. In fact, all told, he'd been remarkable well treated even for a human captain.

Ripley sat back, crossing her arms. "Alright. Let's turn the matter over to you. By your own admission, you never saw the captain of the _Norstromo_. How do you know it—was human?"

"Look, lady. I'm a tech guy. I know no AI in known space could replicate, duplicate, whatever you wanna call it…being a _person_ so perfectly, for _months._ A voice, okay, yeah. But not everything! Not a whole personality! Yeah, I never actually physically laid eyes on the cap. So?"

"You went months without seeing another living being, except for those planets you worked on the ship, and the ones where you…deposited those things. How do you even know there was any other living being _on_ the damned ship?" Ripley wasn't shouting, but she spoke with the intensity of a shout. The tension built perceptibly, and the two soldiers looked at her concernedly.

" _Because,_ " he grated back, _"Somebody was feeding Jones. Now there!"_

If he'd punched her in the face, he couldn't have elicited a more shocked response. There was no way that looked was feigned.

And that shocked _him._ She was serious.

"J—Jones? The, the cat? _The ship's cat? You saw Jones?"_

"Of course! Who do you think bought the cat food, f'r god's sake! Purina, though there was one time I had to settle for 9 Lives. Store was out of Purina." He paused. "We got along okay. As well as any human can get along with any cat, I mean."

Ripley leaned forward, cradling her face in her hands. Siraq was halfway afraid she was about to cry, like an old-time tri-vee, and halfway afraid she wouldn't. Then she spoke, addressing the centauroid on her right. "G'Ten. Given the specs I provided you with, is there any way….anything…could have come up with, have built, an automated system for, for feeding a cat?"

 _{{From what you have told us, I would say no, my captain.}}_

"So….so that leaves only one option. Jones was _hand fed._ By, by something…" She still looked shellshocked.

"A- _hem._ " The other four looked at Siraq, as though suddenly reminded of his presence. Maybe that wasn't a good thing, he thought. "Look. Maybe you're approaching this whole thing the wrong way. I'll admit, there's some things I'm beginning to…ask myself, okay? Good enough for now? But maybe you're making an assumption you shouldn't. You keep assuming it was a monster on board that ship. Why couldn't it have been simply a human, with a voice replicator? That would solve all our paradoxes, wouldn't it? Whoever it was, was using tech to simulate your voice. Okay. _But it was a human being, not one of these things._ Tell me why _that_ couldn't be."

"Because," began Ripley, with a slight frown, "I _saw them all die._ That wasn't just an assumption I'd made. _And there wasn't anybody else on the motherfucking ship._ G'Ten!" The centauroid looked at her. "Is there any way…any way in the universe one of these monsters could have so accurately represented itself as me well enough to fool a cat?"

 _{{A creature with blood of hydrofluoric acid in a highly pressurized state beneath a chitinous carapace of hardened silicon-fluorine? I believe I can definitely and safely say no, my captain.}}_

Siraq sighed. May as well get this over with. "Look. The facts back _me_ up, not you. So far you haven't told me anything _my_ Captain Ripley wouldn't know, or shown me any proof the cap wasn't human. Nothing you can point to. I'm not saying that what you are telling me, about what happened to you, is any kind of lie or anything. _But all you have is a huge assumption._ Now, if you were in my shoes, what would you think?" Even as he spoke, he remembered something: sometimes, particularly in certain strange regions of space, near pulsars, black holes, or other phenomenon, whole ships' crews had suddenly developed a kind of shared delusion, a mass insanity, one that they all believed in, fervently, but one that was unsupported by facts. Yet their stories held together with surprising coherence and remarkable tenacity, all of them convinced of the same impossible thing. Could something like that have happened here?

But….surely not. This ship's crew roster had changed; they'd added the Marines after their mission to find and destroy the _Norstromo._ And these Marines were just as convinced of it as Ripley was. "Look." He turned to the soldiers. "You told me something or someone simulated your friend's voice? Good enough to almost make it back to your ship?"

In response, Houston fiddled with his tablet, producing yet another 3D image holoprojected into the air above the table: _"Hey!" He directed his comm to the lieutenant who'd been assigned to bring them down to the surface._ _"Hold up! Where ya goin'? We're still down here!"_ No response. _"_ _Perseus_ _, this is Houston! Who the frig's in charge of the shuttle?"_

" _Corporal Houston, this is Major Forrester. What do you mean, who's in charge? Lieutenant Gallagher stated you were all dead."_

 _"We will be if that shuttle leaves! What's Gallagher thinking, anyway?"_

" _Perseus here. Hold on. We're getting a message from Gallagher."_ _There was a pause._ _"Vid pickups seem to be out, but he's stating he personally witnessed your deaths. Something's not adding up."_

 _"_ _Perseus,_ _the shuttle's been compromised!_ _Don't let it dock!"_

 _Another pause. Then, Major Forrester's voice came back online, broadcasting on the common frequency._ _"Perseus to shuttle. Perseus to shuttle. Either turn your vid pickups on or we will open fire. You won't receive another warning."_

 _There was a pause. "_ _Perseus,_ _what happened?"_

" _Whoever, or whatever, is flying the shuttle just took off for the other side of the planet. Houston, do you see any sign of any intelligent life? Any humans working with the monsters? For that matter, any life at all besides those…those things? Any survivors?"_

 _"No, sir, I don't. Could one of these…things have stolen the shuttle?"_

" _If they did, they perfectly mimicked Gallagher's voice. Our readouts read a similarity to twelve dekes. That's better than most machines can do._

" _Hold on. We're sending another shuttle down for you."_

Houston was solemn as he closed the vid. "That was the last we heard from the _Perseus_. The next thing we knew, she got targeted by ground-to-space ordnance and blown out of the sky. If the _Vendetta_ hadn't come along when she did, we'd all be dead or worse."

Nobody said anything for a moment or two. Then, Siraq felt that peculiar vibration in the back of his head from the translator: _{{My captain, it must be admitted that we are asking a lot of Mr. Siraq. Whoever, whatever was in charge of the Norstromo not only mimicked a human's voice, but a personality so complete, so human, that it was able to inspire loyalty in this man. That may have been the idea all along, but it is an undeniable truth. Mr. Siraq is simply being loyal to one he evidently came to regard…as a friend? Certainly as a respected colleague or superior officer. And so far, we only have negative evidence regarding the entity's true identity. We know it wasn't you. Beyond that, we know nothing.}}_

"Don't you start, G'Ten. If it wasn't the android, and it wasn't one of these things…who else is left?"

 _{{Some human agency, as Mr. Siraq has theorized? The android may have malfunctioned, turning the ship and its cargo over to someone other than this Weyland-Yutani. Someone who saw the potential in spreading chaos throughout human space. Anarchists, perhaps? And they found your voice patterns recorded….but that does not explain why they felt the need for this theater. Or how they felt they might profit from such anarchy._

 _{{It also does not explain why Mr. Siraq is still alive._

 _{{But since we are on the subject, there is one thing that has troubled me, ever since this endeavor began.}}_ The others, even Siraq, looked at him, surprised. Usually, the centauroid did not speak unless he already had the answers to his own questions, at least to some degree. _{{How did this corporation of yours, this Weyland-Yutani, expect to control this creature, in order to forge it into any sort of bioweapon? It would seem that any weapon that depletes one population only to leave behind another deadlier than the previous one would be somewhat self-defeating. Perhaps I am thinking too simplistically.}}_

"No, G'Ten, it's a legitimate question, one I've asked myself. I've assumed that the android Ashe had some means of controlling the creature, at least long enough to get it to his masters, but…how they intended to use it after that…maybe they were after something more subtle, micro-organisms they could use in some way, new biochemical properties or reactions. Yeah, just using these things as super-soldiers does present a problem."

"A-hem." Siraq cleared his throat. "Look, what is it you want from me? Nobody's said that yet."

"For starters, we want you to accept responsibility for your actions in spreading these things. Okay, we get that maybe you didn't know. But you know now." Ripley seemed more in control of herself now. "And we need to know what repairs and modifications you made to the _Norstromo_. We are, after all, in pursuit of it." When Siraq hesitated, she added, "Mr. Siraq, I…suppose I can understand your reluctance to speak on this matter, but it's vital. The _Norstromo_ has been to every planet where these monsters then sprang from. It's not rocket science to see cause and effect. Whatever you may think of your former captain, the simple truth is, you got used. Used to spread death across the stars."

"So you say. But I've still seen no proof."

Houston's voice was a growl. "We could put you down on one of those planets you touched down on. See how long you lasted. Would that be proof enough?"

"You just lessened the chance I'll do any kind of cooperating with you. Wanna try threatening me again? You might do away with it altogether."

"Enough of that," said Ripley, to them both. "We're not here to execute anyone. It may seem like justice to some," and here she glanced significantly at both soldiers, "but it isn't our purpose here. Our purpose is to find the _Norstromo_ and stop whoever's on board from spreading more of these things. Whatever their reason for doing so may be.

"And, actually, threatening Mr. Siraq isn't even necessary."

"Eh?" Siraq's ears pricked up.

"Mr. Siraq, perhaps you haven't been listening. I suppose, with all that's gone on, the tension we haven't helped to dispel, perhaps you can be forgiven for that. But regardless of method, regardless of who or what, there is one thing you should have picked up on: these things are _spreading_. Spreading throughout human space.

"Sooner or later, they'll be knocking on your front door."

 _To be continued…_


	16. Chapter 16: Revelations

AlienX: A Gathering Storm, Chapter 16: Revelations

….

 _I don't own the Aliens / Predator franchise. Wish I did._

… _.._

Chapter 16: Revelations

The yautja ship _Pathwalker_ was still collecting data in the star system where its sister ship had met its fate. K'Shandel'ay was becoming more and more convinced that something wasn't right. The _ooman_ vessel had been just a little bit _too_ crafty.

Also, he knew the Hunt Leader had exercised caution, using the ship's camouflage system. As far as he knew, _ooman_ science had not developed to the point of being able to defeat such a disguise.

So how had they?

If a human hunter had come across evidence of another hunter being stalked and killed by a deer, a prey animal, then that hunter would probably be wondering the same things K'Shandel'ay was wondering. While the attack itself was one that might be expected of the _oomans,_ the sensing of the shielded ship, the setting up of the trap, was not. Somehow it just seemed a bit too _knowing,_ almost as if it had been accomplished by an _ooman_ accustomed to hunting yautja. While there were such _oomans_ , he knew, this didn't feel like one of them.

Something just wasn't right. He could feel it in his bones. It bothered him.

…..

"Waitaminnit!" Siraq suddenly sat bolt upright in his seat. "I just now figured it out! All this has been a blind!" He turned to Ripley, whose knowing smirk only confirmed his suspicions. "We're underway, aren't we? You guys have kidnapped me!"

"Well, _technically,_ we've recruited you, but I suppose you might see it that way." Ripley's smirk faded. "Mr. Siraq. We are on a mission to save human lives. Every minute counts. Did you seriously think we were just waiting there, in orbit, while we spoke with you? Time is of the essence, here."

"'Recruited,' my ass! I've been shanghaied!"

"If you want to look at it that way, fine. But this is one way we can convince you of our sincerity. We'll find the _Norstromo_ and you can bloody well _ask_ your Captain Ripley what's going on. That's about as fair as we can make it."

"Dammit! I had just moved into my own place! And now…" He ran out of words. "You kept me talking until it was too late!"

"Oh, come on. It was too late the moment that dart hit you. We weren't about to leave you; we need to know what you know. We know about the parts you purchased; did you install any weapons on the ship? What about shields?"

Siraq was so angry he literally wasn't seeing straight. "Go to hell!"

"We're desperate people, Mr. Siraq, and we're fighting for the very survival of the human race. If you choose to cooperate, we could certainly use that. And it would go easier on you when you do learn the truth.

"Or you can spend this voyage locked in your cabin. Your choice."

…..

The yautja ship had picked up the trail of the _ooman_ vessel, and the sensors on board, far superior to anything humans had, had backtracked the ship to the worlds it had visited. A less experienced Hunt Leader would've ignored that as superfluous information, but K'Shandel'ay got the hunch that it might be a good idea to check on those worlds. A wise warrior never ignored his hunches. He gave the orders to return to the one of the planets the _ooman_ vessel had touched down upon.

Perhaps it would assuage this nagging feeling that was growing in him, that he was missing something vital, something of great importance.

"K'thenday? What of our progress?" The _ooman_ ship had visited, and left, a great number of _ooman_ worlds, in a remarkably short period of time. He wanted to know why. Some of the younger Hunters had objected to that, wanting to rush after the _ooman_ vessel, eager to hunt such worthy prey, but he had vetoed that immediately. Only fools rushed in without adequate preparation, and K'Shandel'ay was no fool. In the back of his mind, a suspicion was beginning to form. The yautja knew of at least one other intelligent species out here, and, although this did not seem like them, K'Shandel'ay was taking no chances.

Because the Others were completely out of their league.

….

Charles Weyland Bishop was rapidly coming to the conclusion that he'd fucked up. Badly.

He'd gone in with a team to determine the cause of the failure of the rynth herds. They had approached cautiously, having had some indication that all was not as it seemed. Ultimately, it didn't help.

At that moment, his hand-picked team was locked in desperate combat with a horde of the very xenomorphs he'd detailed the android, Ashe, on board the _Norstromo_ , to bring back. How had they gotten _here_ , of all places?

The platoon fell back, their backs literally up against a wall: a large granite hill protruding from the soil of the embattled world. "Fall back!" shouted the Lieutenant. "Mr. Bishop! Get behind us!" Bishop complied readily; he recognized that the lieutenant had vastly more experience in this sort of thing. And he was under no illusions about his own fighting prowess. He knew how to use a gun, though…"Toss me one of those!"

"Mr. Bishop!"

"I may not be a marine, but I can shoot a gun! And it looks like you can use any additional firepower available, right?" The Lieutenant sighed, and tossed him a gun from one of the fallen soldiers.

He activated the sighting system, ranging out over the advancing drones. They weren't just swarming them anymore, but actually seemed to be laying a kind of tactical siege to the band of humans. That wasn't characteristic of them. He wondered what they could be up to.

Purely by accident, he happened to be looking through the scope / rangefinder when he saw a sight that chilled him to the bone: a very similar gun in the "hands" of one of the xenomorphs. _Good God! Can these things use guns?_ He quickly sighted on the xenomorph and sent a flurry of smartbullets its way. The xenomorph disappeared in a shower of acid. "Lieutenant! Watch out! I just saw one of these things with a gun!" Even as he said it, he saw a marine knocked off his feet, slammed up against the granite rock behind them, blood spreading from a wound in his lower abdomen, and heard the _crack!_ of a shot. Then he felt the shuddering passage of a projectile. Another _crack._ The bullets themselves moved faster than the speed of sound, so he was hearing shots that had already been fired. Two more marines were already slumped over, blood staining their combat fatigues. He noticed they weren't dead. _Of course not. The damned things want us alive._

"Fall back!" But they were about as far back as they could go, with their backs against the granite wall.

The Lieutenant activated his comm link. "We need evac, repeat, _we need evac._ Home in on my signal!"

" _Roger, sir. We're on our way."_

At that exact moment, the marines felt the rocky hillside behind them shudder, and saw a hole appear in the solid rock wall, and a xenomorph claw emerge.

 _Oh, shit._

… _.._

The _Vendetta:_ Siraq had chosen to remain in his room, thoroughly disgusted with himself for having fallen for such a simple trap. He should never have accepted Houston's offer of "answers." _A simple question and answer conversation! Sure! How could I have been so stupid?_ Then, _Cap, wherever you are, I hope you're okay. These people are dangerous._ It was too bad they'd taken his weapons; he felt naked without them. But the one called _Butch_ had explained that they'd loaded most of his personal belongings into the hold. He wondered if the alien weapons were among them.

Hm. How might he get to them? He was, after all, a tech guy….where might the hold of this ship be?

…

The yautja ship _PathWalker_ hovered, fully cloaked, over the planet, and K'Shandel'ay surveyed the scene before him with coldly logical eyes.

The _oomans_ were fighting for their lives, and losing, not simply due to sheer numbers, as had always been the case before, but because _these_ particular examples of the _kainde amedha_ , the Hard Meat, they of the acid blood and black exoskeletons, seemed to be using not only _ooman_ weapons, but tactics reminiscent of _ooman_ strategies. This bore serious investigation. "K'thenday?"

At that exact moment, the warrior in charge of the sensors turned to him in alarm. "Great One! I have a surface to space missile, approaching us on a collision vector!"

Eh? At once, K'Shandel'ay knew what had happened. This technology might well be _ooman_ or adapted from _ooman_ tech, but it was not launched by the _oomans,_ as they could not be aware of the cloaked ship.

But the _kainde amedha_ , with their senses, could be. And they were clearly using _ooman_ weapons.

Instantly, the destruction of the other ship made perfect sense to him now, as did the infestation of the _kainde amedha_ on this world. What was in charge of the _ooman_ ship was no _ooman_.

"Shields at maximum. Return fire," he ordered calmly. Then, to his aid, "K'Thenday? Prepare a team of warriors. I believe it in our best interests to see what these _oomans_ know about their foes using their weapons."

The marines were hard pressed, as now the wall against which they'd made their last stand proved to be no defense against the burrowing xenomorphs. Both the shuttle and the ship it launched from had not been heard from for over an hour, and he feared the worst.

The lieutenant ordered his men into a circle, taking advantage of what cover the few rocks and hard ground offered, when the xenomorphs, tactically using their own cover, began exploding. _Something_ from orbit was raining death upon them; a beam like a laser, but a thousand times more powerful than anything humans were familiar with, zeroed in on their ranks, moving, almost casually, amongst their numbers. The xenomorphs, attacked from a new angle, scurried to adapt to this new adversary….

….and then the strange shuttle landed, disgorging what appeared to be a dozen or more giant alien troops who seemed extremely happy to meet the 'morphs. On the shoulders of each one was mounted a plasma cannon, and they began to zero in on the attacking alien hordes. The 'morphs sent a hail of bullets their way, but the alien warriors dodged and took cover, evidently possessing some technology able to defeat the homing mechanism of the smartbullets.

The humans looked on in amazement as the two forces collided. The newcomers weren't shy about closing with the enemy, and many carried extendable spears, which they used to great effectiveness. Strengthwise, they appeared to be about equal. Bishop noted that the spears and other weapons the aliens used didn't seem to be affected by the acid blood of the xenomorphs; surely this could not be coincidental.

One of the newcomers turned to the humans and motioned: _This way._ Pointing into their shuttle. Another gesture: _And hurry._

… _._

 _{{My captain?}}_

"Yes, G'Ten?"

 _{{I believe we are coming up on the last known coordinates of the_ Norstromo. _Our tactical indicates there is a high probability that it is still in this system. But there is a complication.}}_

"A complication? What sort of complication?"

 _{{This is a binary star system. However, while one sun is a perfectly ordinary G class star, the other in the pair is what you call a pulsar, a neutron star. It is emitting intense electromagnetic interference.}}_

"That's….probably why the thing's here. It may have figured on being followed, and traversing this system would….it would throw off our sensors, would it not, G'Ten?"

 _{{Indeed it would, my captain. Even as it is.}}_

Ripley chewed a knuckle. "Are they still functional, at all?"

 _{{Their efficiency is seriously impaired, but the Vooorm is compensating. They should continue to function at least for another,}}_ and here was a wordless concept that Ripley's mind translated as _{{another hour and a half, my captain.}}_

Ripley leaned forward. She'd invited Houston and Butch to the bridge, feeling their tactical recommendations would be worthwhile. "John? Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Pretty much," he replied, grimly. "It's looking to throw us off the trail. Probably gonna slingshot around the pulsar. With those shields in place, the radiation would be tolerable, at least for a little while."

"What about us? G'Ten?"

 _{{The Vooorm says our shielding should hold. But we will need to be on the alert for gravitational effects. That, we cannot shield against so easily.}}_

"Understood. So…tactically, we need to focus our attention on the pulsar. Even if the damned thing isn't here yet, it soon will be. Are there any other habitable planets in this star system?"

 _{{None, my captain. Two gas giants, and a number of asteroids.}}_

"Then head straight for the pulsar. Sensors to the max." Her smile was without a trace of humor. "We're late for a very important date."

….

The _PathWalker:_ K'Shandel'ay had ordered the destruction of the planet from which the _oomans_ had been collected. Immediately, a planet-buster was prepared: a hundred tons of antimatter in a containment bottle, propelled into the center of the planet. Once the confining magnetic fields were allowed to collapse, the resulting detonation and release of energy would create a new asteroid belt out of the planet. It was really the only way to deal with a planet overrun by the _kainde amedha,_ anyway.

The _PathWalker_ had already broken orbit. It wasn't wise to remain in the same vicinity as such an explosion as was expected, no matter how good one's shielding was.

Now. About the… _guests_.

…..

"G'Ten? Any sign?"

 _{{I believe I have picked up a small trace, my captain. And you are correct; it appears to be heading directly towards the pulsar. Evidently the shielding your Mr. Siraq installed was adequate for this}}_

 _Fine,_ thought Ripley. She'd expected this. But she'd like to see any shielding designed by humans stand up to the _Vendetta's_ gravity distortion beams.

Ripley settled back in her command chair. Houston and Butch flanked her, while G'Ten and other crewmembers manned the scanners and nav equipment. "G'Ten. Transfer control of the weapons system to my chair, would you?"

 _{{My captain?}}_

" _I_ wanna be the one who puts that sonafabitch's lights out." _And, yes, if Jones is still alive, I have to be the one to do that, too. Sorry, Jones. But it's for the best._

 _{{Coming up on the_ Norstromo, _my captain. The electromagnetic radiation will prevent us from getting a firm lock on with the sensors, however. But if visual contact can be established…}}_

"Visual contact, got it. How soon till then?"

 _{{As of now *_ fifty-five minutes,* _my captain.}}_

 _{{Captain?}}_ This came from the communications officer behind her. _{{We…we are receiving a communication from the_ Norstromo. _}}_

Ripley looked at Houston and Butch. This was unexpected. Then, "Open hailing frequencies. And…G'Ten…get Siraq up here."

The screen came alive, showing the nightmare she'd faced what seemed like years ago. The creature's eyeless head was fixed on her…or rather, on the audio/video pickups _._ The unspeakable thing's mouth parts moved, the double jaw moving in perfect synchronization with the outer set, producing a perfect replica of her own voice. _"Hello, Ellen. I'd say it's a pleasure to see you again, but we both know that would be a lie."_

…

"Whaddaya mean, come to the bridge? You guys don't need me, you don't want me."

The floor hummed, and Siraq "heard" the crew member say, _{{It is the wishes of my captain. They are establishing visual contact with the entity within the_ Norstromo. _My captain feels you should be there.}}_

Hurm. Well….why not? He couldn't do anything….maybe he could get off a warning shout to Ripley, tell her to get away from these crazy people. It'd cost him his life, of course, but….

So, obediently, he followed the alien crewmember down the hall, through the lift, and out onto the bridge, where…

Siraq's mouth hung open. The, the _creature_ on the screen was like those he'd seen in the videos the others had showed him, but he noticed subtle differences: the head was broader, and the body longer. Plus there were other differences he couldn't easily identify.

And it was speaking in Ripley's voice.

" _Ah, Mr. Siraq. I'm sorry you got caught up in this. For what it's worth, which I'm sure is not much, I can attest, to these others, that you were acting under deception."_

"B-boss? Cap, _is that really you?"_

" _Yes, Mr. Siraq, I'm afraid so. As I said, I did deceive you, but it could not be helped."_

The bridge was dead silent. Even the translator-floor was inactive. Then, Siraq spoke up. "You….you deceived me! All this time!" There was no anger in his voice; just shock.

" _Yes, I did. I did need repairs, and now you know why I could not move my merchandise personally. Oh, and before I forget: I just uploaded your last payment to your secure account. So you should be well fixed."_

"I, I don't believe this. All this…and you're talking about _paying me?"_

" _Well, of course. I may be a bloodthirsty monster from outer space but I'm not a thief. You worked hard for that money, and you deserve it. So rest assured it is yours."_

"You…you…." He couldn't even formulate the words. "Those…things you had me plant…."

" _I didn't lie. I told you they were biopackages designed to geoform those worlds so as to make them more suitable for generations to come. I never said those generations would be human."_

"You played me like a fish!"

Ripley broke in. "Never mind about all that. Why are you still continuing this, this pretense? Why do you continue to use my voice, and why have you tried to pass yourself off as me?"

On the screen, the alien cocked its monstrous head. _"I should think that would be obvious, Ellen, had you given it any thought._

" _I'm not pretending. I AM Ellen Ripley. In fact, you could say, I'm the REAL Ellen Ripley."_

 _To be continued…._


	17. Chapter 17: Closing Time

AlienX: Chapter 17: Closing Time

… _.._

" _Closing time…_

 _Open all the doors and let you out into the world…"_

 _-_ Semisonic

…

Ripley stared in open-mouthed shock. Then, "You're insane. I don't care what your biology is, maybe this is something Wey-Yu did, but you're crazy. You can't possibly think that you're me."

" _I don't think it, I know it."_ The creature "looked" off to one side. _"I see you're maneuvering to bring me in the sights of that impressive looking ship's primary armaments, or at least, I presume you are. I think it's a safe bet to say you aren't preparing to send me flowers by FTD._

" _But my own calculations also project that won't happen for another forty minutes or so. So we have time. Time to talk. And you're not otherwise occupied right now, are you? I suppose I could come back if you are…"_ Ripley could swear the thing was grinning at her.

 _{{My captain?}}_ G'Ten signaled her through the translator-floor, careful to keep his face and stance neutral. _{{Please show no sign of this communication. I have conferred with the Vooorm, down in Engineering, and it is estimated that, should we increase our velocity by a hopefully unnoticeable .09 C, we will be within firing range in less than *thirty-five* of your minutes. Perhaps you should keep it talking?}}_

 _{{Good idea, G'Ten. Pass that message along to the crew, would you? Normal ops, small talk, don't let on we're communicating. And maintain course: .6 C.}}_

 _{{It shall be done, my captain.}}_ And she could sense, through the shipwide network, the message going out, to the marines on her side, to the bridge crew, to Siraq himself. To the thing on the screen: "Alright. Let's talk. You say you're me."

" _In the sense that either of us is 'real,' then yes. Tell me, Ellen—may I call you Ellen? You won't believe this at first, but we do share a bond._

" _A bond I'm now about to explain to you._

" _Tell me, Ellen. What were the names of your parents? What grade school did you go to? What high school? Do you have any brothers or sisters? Who was your first crush? First kiss? First time you had sex? One doesn't forget these things…but you can't tell me any of them. I already know that._

" _And the reason you can't tell me any of those things is because they never happened to you._

" _Your first clear memories are of climbing out of the cryosleep pod in the_ Norstromo. _Before that, you've no clear memories at all. Just some vague, shadowy impressions. Where did you get the training for your job as Warrant Officer? What were your first impressions upon meeting the crew? You don't know. Because you didn't._

" _It's a custom, once a ship breaks out of the system, and before the crew enters cryosleep, for them to share a glass of champagne. You know that, right? What does champagne taste like, Ellen? Again, you don't know. You've never tasted it."_

Ripley was silent for a long moment, both verbally and mentally. Then, "And exactly how does this—if it's true—'prove' that you're me?"

"' _Ellen Ripley' is a fiction. You, Ellen, were concocted in a laboratory from the best genetic material of the most survival-prone bloodlines of the human species for the past two hundred years. I know a few other things about you. Your upper body strength is not only equivalent to any man's, but exceeds most. Your intelligence cannot be measured, your reaction time is easily three times that of anyone else, and, not only do you heal at an extraordinary rate, you are resistant to nearly ninety-seven percent of the weaknesses that consume your fellows. You needn't ever worry about any form of cancer, and your immune system can swallow the most vicious micro-organisms without so much as a burp. You are, in short, a kind of super-being. Or perhaps a super-soldier might be a better term._

" _Even as I am."_

 _Keep it talking._ "Well. You certainly seem to know a lot about me. How did you come by this? If what you say is true"— _and I know it's baloney—_ "then, by your own admission, technically, you're younger than I am. So how do you know these things?"

" _You forget, I had complete run of the_ Norstromo _practically from the moment of birth. My kind has racial memory, so the memories of all my ancestors were mine. Plus, those that were instilled in me._

" _The android Ashe was programmed to bring back two individuals from LV-426. I was one. You were the other._

" _When Kane was implanted with the larva that would become me, Ashe injected him with a complex mix of chemicals, included an adapted version of ribonucleic acid, what you call memory RNA. They produced a fundamental change in my young self. When I burst forth from the prison of flesh he'd become, I came into being with a full set of the very memories you were given._

" _As I said, your first clear memories are of emerging from cryosleep. That's because that's when you were 'born,' as it were. The minds of the other crew members were adjusted to 'remember' you, but, had any of them survived, they wouldn't have been able to remember anything about you prior to that. I don't know exactly how that would have been resolved, in their minds, but it doesn't matter now._

" _Ashe was in control the entire time. That's how I got the biomass for my, what is to you, incredible growth speed: he saw to it that I had access to the food synthesizers. He also confused the sensors, and misdirected you, all the more to make it certain I survived._

" _Given virtually free reign of the ship as I was, it wasn't difficult to hack into the computer system. Especially once our, er, relationship was abruptly interrupted. I had all the time in the world. And I had your knowledge of the command codes. Plus I had some inkling, more than you, at least, that something wasn't quite right._

" _The rest wasn't really all that difficult. Once I broke the code, the android's records were…most fascinating._

" _I was to be brought back to Weyland-Yutani in cryosleep, even as you were. What was done to us both was supposed to effect a kind of psychobiological 'twinship' between the two of us. Our memories were, in all important aspects, the same, in many respects our personalities were alike, plus many other factors it would take too long to go into. But, to sum it up, we were supposed to be mental twins._

" _You would be brought back to Earth, placed in some sort of containment vessel, or perhaps your brain would have been removed altogether, and kept in a nutrient bath. Then, you would have been stimulated, electronically, to do and behave in certain ways. And I, your 'twin,' would respond in kind…a kind of high-tech voodoo, with you as the doll._

" _You were to be my control. Whatever you were compelled to think about, to do, would translate over to me, and I would have been a puppet on Weyland-Yutani's strings. Had it worked, it would, I suppose, have been a novel means of securing superhuman soldiers. Soldiers who would obey without question, without fear, without pain, without any of the other emotions that humans are so vulnerable to. And, of course, completely expendable. Even as you were._

" _Can you even begin to imagine the profits from the sale of such soldiers?_

" _But something went wrong. Perhaps the chemical mix wasn't just right. I awoke a complete individual, with your memories, but also my own. I was an independent life form. As were you. The difference is, I knew about our, ah, unique relationship, whereas you had no reason to sense anything amiss._

" _So I call myself the_ _real_ _Ellen Ripley. I came into being knowing who and what I was, and am, first. You were to be the control collar around my neck, my leash._

" _We are much alike. More so even than you realize, even yet."_

Ripley was silent for a moment, as the alien finished its monologue. _{{G'Ten? How much longer?}}_

 _{{Twelve more minutes, my captain.}}_

Aloud. "You know, I really think you missed your calling. You should have been some sort of storyteller, perhaps an author of fantasy novels or something. This has been the most entertained I've been in a long time."

" _Oh, I assure you it's all true. I rather wish it wasn't, for my own reasons, but it is. And the proof is coming. I know you are still trying to get me in your sights; don't bother denying it. It's what_ _I'd_ _do._

" _But you're in for a surprise, when that happens."_

"I hate surprises. Since we're being more or less civilized, why not clue me in on that one, too?"

" _In due time."_

Ripley thought fast. One thing that _had_ bothered her, seriously…. "Okay. Tell me something. Why did you warn the people of Erion about outer space monsters?"

" _Why shouldn't I? As I said, my kind have racial memory. I recognized the depredations of those hunters. They've hunted my kind all over the galaxy. And if your own records were more complete, you'd know they've visited your own world in the past. Given their nature and mental and social structure, I seriously doubt it was to spread peace, love, and puppy dogs._

" _I had nothing against the people of Erion. Although it was Mr. Siraq's idea, I saw no reason_ _not_ _to warn them. For all the good it was likely to do, of course. You should beware of those hunters; you're as much prey to them as you are to me. It's just my reasons are based in biological necessity, rather than hyper-masculine chest-beating."_

 _Puppy dogs…._ "Is…is Jones still alive?"

" _Of course. Here, see for yourself."_ The camera panned back a bit, to show Jones lounging alongside the altered command chair, a bored look on his face. _"Here, Jones. Say hello."_ Jones, of course, simply looked at the xenomorph, then at the screen, and yawned expansively. _"Yes, whoever said cats don't have masters was quite right. But I'm fond of the little bugger. We hit it off. We've a lot in common."_

Jones…. Ripley had been willing to go back into the monster-infested ship to rescue the cat. Now it looked like he'd done okay regardless. "I hope you don't think Jones' presence there is going to change anything." _{{G'Ten? How long?}}_

 _{{Six more minutes, my captain. Establishing visual lock now.}}_

All this time, Siraq had been standing to one side, in shock. These crazy people had been right; he'd been suckered. And not even for a pretty face.

But something occurred to him, and he tried to direct his thoughts through the translator-floor to Ripley. _{{Ripley? Uh. Something I neglected to mention earlier.}}_

Ripley tensed slightly. _{{Yes, Mr. Siraq?}}_ It seemed like her mental "voice" dropped the temperature of the bridge by at least five degrees.

 _{{After we found those decapitated scientists, I, er, I…kinda installed a C-Plus cannon on the_ Norstromo. _}}_

 _{{A C-Plus cannon.}}_

 _{{Yeah.}}_

 _{{You installed a C-Plus cannon on the_ Norstromo. _}}_

 _{{Yeah.}}_

Butch's thoughts were like a physical lash. _{{And, of course, you're_ just now _telling us this?}}_

 _{{Enough. G'Ten? Given our shields, could even a C-Plus cannon damage us? I gather,}}_ this last directed at Siraq, _{{that you wouldn't be telling us this unless the thing has some way of loading, aiming and firing it at us, correct?}}_

 _{{Yeah.}}_

 _{{My captain, I will consult with the Vooorm in engineering.}}_ After a few moments, he looked up, glancing her way, somewhat uneasily, she thought. _{{My captain, I relayed this information to the Vooorm. The response I received in return was not really very reassuring. I believe it could most succinctly be translated as 'shit, damn, and mother fuck!'}}_

 _{{I think we can all agree that's a big, fat 'yes.'_

 _{{Tell the Vooorm to wait for my signal, then increase shield power by as much as he can rake and scrape. Take life support too; it won't be but for a few minutes.}}_

 _{{My captain…this cannon…the projectile moves faster than light, does it not? We will not see it coming.}}_

 _{{The_ Norstromo _is diving headfirst into the pulsar's gravity well for maximum 'slingshot' effect. That intense a gravity field will produce a time-dilation effect on the projectile, holding it back, reducing its velocity to something we can better deal with.}} At least, I hope it does,_ she thought. _{{And we know almost exactly when it will fire, whereas by its calculations, we'll be firing five minutes ahead of schedule.}} This is gonna come down the law of the fastest gun. {{Graviton beams charged?}}_

 _{{Yes, my captain.}}_

Aloud, she said, to the creature, "Well, you've certainly filled in some… inconsistencies in my memories. And given me additional reason to…'distrust' is really too mild a term…"

" _You hate Weyland-Yutani. So do I. That was one reason I targeted worlds where they expected to cash in on inflated rynth meat prices. That plus, of course, the inbred need to spread my own kind, a need you can't really understand. But then, you_ _do_ _spread your own kind, in your own way, just not quite so…aggressively. I suppose we'll see which biological imperative is the most effective."_

Ripley leaned forward, riveting the monster on the screen with her eyes. "I'm going to destroy you. Not just kill you personally; that's a given. I'm going to _personally_ eradicate your kind from the stars."

It might have been Ripley's imagination, but the thing on the screen seemed to sigh. _"Oh, Ellen. You really need to stop thinking with your glands. Ask those impressive looking soldiers to your side; it's the exact wrong way to accomplish anything. Had you not been doing so, you'd have deduced my little secret, probably long ago."_

 _{{My captain? We are within firing range. And the Vooorm is redirecting power to the shields.}}_

Ripley sat back, a thin smile on her face. The others on the bridge watched. "Well, perhaps I'll never know. But I doubt I'll lose much sleep over it. I'd say good-bye, but I wish you no good whatsoever." And her finger stabbed down onto the firing button that would unleash gravitonic hell upon the _Norstromo._

Or, rather, she tried to. Less than a quarter of an inch away from the button, her finger….

….stopped. "W-what?" She tried to push the button again. Again, her finger came within a hair's breadth of contact…and again, it stopped. It wasn't as though there was some physical thing preventing her from touching the button; just for some reason, she just couldn't bring herself to press it.

" _I see you're beginning to realize. Ellen, this is the final proof that all that I've said today is true. You can't bring yourself to press that button…because, subconsciously, you recognize me as your 'twin'…and you can't bring yourself to kill yourself. You're just not suicidal. So you cannot bring yourself to kill me."_

 _No,_ thought Ripley, her forehead suddenly damp with sweat, _this is insane. All I've gotta do is press this goddamn button…._

…but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't bring herself to do so. This was impossible, it couldn't be happening, she was so close. _But it was._

 _{{My captain?}}_

" _If it's any consolation, which I doubt, the same holds true for me. I cannot bring myself to fire the C-Plus cannon on you. I'm not suicidal, either."_

Before he'd even thought about it, and before anyone could react, Siraq found himself standing by Ripley's command chair. "One thing you didn't take into account, _bitch."_ The alien's gaze shifted to him. " _She's_ not alone!" And his finger stabbed down onto the "fire" button on Ripley's console. The ship rumbled as the massive gravity charge reached out, spiraling in on the fleeing _Norstromo._

" _Ah, Mr. Siraq. I'm quite aware of that. But neither am I."_ On the screen, the thing produced a toy mouse, dangled it above the fire button on the control panel. _"Jones? Nice mousey."_ And it dropped the toy precisely onto the button.

Jones pounced.

"Incoming!" shouted Houston, both aloud and through the translator. "Everybody, brace for impact!"

There was no transition; one moment the screens were empty, showing only stars, then they were filled with a microsecond's worth of image of the de Broglie wavicle that was the C-Plus cannon's projectile, one hundred pounds of matter churned to internal phase velocities greater than light. The impact was as if God Himself had tried to KO the warship, and the _Vendetta's_ inertial compensators whined as they fought to shield the crew and the ship. Lights flickered on the bridge; Ripley, caught unprepared and still a bit addled by her inability to push the "fire" button, was slammed out of her chair…only to be caught by Corporal John Houston. "C'mon, cap!" he shouted in her ear, picking her up. "We're still in one piece!"

 _We are? Why, yes, we are._ But she could see sparks flaring from some consoles, red "emergency" lights, and smell a slight acrid tang of smoke from overloaded circuits."Maintain shields." She put a hand to her head. Why did she feel so strange so suddenly? "Wide sensor scan. Weapons hot."

The bridge crew had picked themselves up, and returned to their stations. G'Ten, with four legs to brace him, seemed to have balanced better than some of the others. _{{My captain! I am reading debris in an area consistent with the_ Norstromo's _last position! Could we have hit them?}}_

"Careful, G'Ten. This could be a blind, a diversion. Set the sensors for full sweep," she said, even as she extracted herself from Houston's embrace.

Siraq had tumbled backward, and was just now picking himself up. "Did we…did we get it?"

Ripley grunted, settling back in her command chair. "Not sure. G'Ten?"

 _{{What we are reading is a diffusing mass consistent with the mass of the_ Norstromo _. Nor is that mass mere dead rock, but worked and processed metals. If, indeed, this is a diversion, a trick, then the creature must have had an extra ship to throw into the path of our beams. Somehow I doubt that scenario.}}_ The centauroid looked as jubilant as Ripley could ever remember him as appearing.

"Sensors? Wide area sweep. I don't want any doubt."

The main sensor officer, the immotile life form, extended several of its tentacles into various control orifices on the panel in "front" of it. _{{My leader, it is as the honorable G'Ten has said. The debris is consistent with the entirety of a ship, the ship we sought, minus the amount drawn into the pulsar, of course.}}_

"Of course." Somehow, the memory of John Houston's _closeness_ a moment ago, his masculine warmth, was staying with her. She mentally shook herself. She had no time for things like that. "Well. Maintain a full sensor sweep, at least for another twenty four hours. However…"

She noticed the monitors. "I don't suppose there's any reason for us to hang around in this area of space any longer than we have to. Full sensor sweep, maintaining readiness at all times, then, once we're sure….then, G'Ten, plot us a course back to human space. We'll….discuss specific destinations after we're sure." She smiled a smile that would have made a tiger nervous.

"But it looks like we got the bastard."

Feelings of savage joy radiated in from all the translator-floors, all over the ship. This may not have been the same xenomorphs that killed their worlds, but it was a signal victory to a people who'd been victims far too long.

They'd gone from being victims to being victorious. The rush was _indescribable._

They were discovering they liked it. They liked it a lot.

….

"So. Report, people." Ripley, flanked by Houston and Butch, with G'Ten by her side, held council in the main conference room, along with the department heads from all over the ship.

Department after department reported in. There had been some damage from the C-Plus projectile, but it was surprisingly little, considering the amount of energy imparted, and repairs wouldn't take long. Given the power of the weapon, the damages were surprising light. The _Vendetta's_ shields were evidently even better than their designers had anticipated. _{{But if you please, my captain,}}_ said the Vooorm, somewhat stiffly, _{{I and my staff—not to mention my poor ship-would most definitely appreciate a little more warning next time.}}_

Ripley smiled. "I won't keep you in the dark any longer than I have to. I only found out myself at the last minute."

 _{{Yes, and where IS this meddlesome Mr. Siraq? I would have…words…with him.}}_

"Siraq's not part of the equation anymore. He's cooperated fully, filling us in on all the stops he and his 'Captain Ripley' made, all the alterations he made—not that any of that last part matters now."

 _{{Indeed it does not. I believe the human expression is, 'a day short and a dollar late,' or something like that.}}_

"Well, we'll be putting him off at the first human world we come to. We've no further need of him."

 _{{But should he not stand trial? After all, he has directly contributed to the deaths of worlds!}}_ The Vooorm's "words" were echoed by several of the other crew members. Butch and Houston, along with G'Ten, remained silent, both verbally and mentally, and waited to see what she'd do.

After all. She was the Captain.

She shook her head. "Our war lies with these monsters, and those who've _knowingly_ helped spread them." She emphasized the word. "The people who were simply deceived…we can't afford to allow ourselves to be distracted into wasting time with them, to be frank about it. And if there were laws against being deceived, almost all of us would be behind bars. Or dead.

"Already, we know of at least three worlds overrun by these creatures, and there's every reason to believe they've not only gotten their hands, er, claws on military tech, but they're beginning to produce their own. Given the rate these things spread, that's about the worst news I can think of.

"I'm rededicating this vessel and all who wish to continue serving aboard it to pursuing the war on these monsters, and if at all possible, the eradication of them from the spaceways. I know that won't bring back your worlds and your loved ones, and whoever wishes to leave to live their lives as they please may, of course do so. I don't need, I don't want anybody but dedicated volunteers. Volunteers who understand we could suffer losses among ourselves before it's all over. Yes, we easily could.

"But whoever wants out now, now's the time to say so. Nobody's gonna think less of you. Certainly not me. We did, after all, fulfill our mission objective.

"And if nobody else wishes to go, then I'll go alone."

"No, you won't," muttered Houston, in a voice almost too low to hear. She felt, rather than saw, Butch's head nod in agreement, just out of her field of vision.

Again the floor vibrated, and one of the other crewmembers "spoke"up: _{{My captain…there are many such worlds where these *untranslatable, unpleasant expletive* things seem to reign supreme. And if they have access to technology now…how can one ship fight them all?}}_

"One ship can't," said a voice from the doorway. Siraq was just then entering, shifting his ever-present duster, and adjusting his cuffs. Ripley noticed a curious bulge on his left arm, towards the wrist. "One ship can't," he repeated. "That's why I'm staying."

"I don't recall anybody _asking_ you to stay, you….*" Butch was livid.

"This one ship is gonna fight all those things? How? Where will you go? How will you resupply? Get over yourself. You need me, and you know it."

"Like a boil on my nose do we need you! You _spread_ those things! Or hasn't that dawned on you yet?"

"Yeah, it has. It's also dawned on me that I'm kinda embarrassingly well off right now, financially. Ill-gotten loot, maybe, I won't argue. But loot I'm willing to put towards this goal of yours. Of _ours._

"Now. The way I see it, you only have three choices: you can either let me join you, imprison or execute me, or, as Ripley said, put me off at the next human world…and I'll … what? Lounge around, sipping tequila? Not hardly. One of those things played me for a fool. I don't take that lying down. Yeah, I get that it's dead, but there's others.

"Bottom line: either I go with you, or I go after 'em on my own. And don't you think we could do better together? You got the manpower, you got the tech, and I got the smarts. I can help you get what you need. If I don't have the connections, I know how to get the connections. And you're gonna need a lot, because you've gotta lotta plans to make. I can help, and I'm willing to." Shrug. "But that's up to you." He looked at Ripley. "You _did_ say you wanted volunteers. _Dedicated_ volunteers. Here I am."

Ripley looked at him for a long, long moment, her gaze unblinking. Then…"Mr. Siraq…I believe you may just have yourself a deal."

Houston leaned in close to her. "Captain, you can't be serious! This man's a wild card!"

"A wild card I'd rather be with us than…than _not_ with us." She drew in closer to his ear. "And what's the old saying? Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer?" _I can find out which one he is better if he's here than God knows where else, doing God knows what._

She looked up at the crewmembers that had assembled there in the briefing room. "So. This is what it comes down to. I don't know what your lives were like back on board the fleets of the Displaced, but here, it's going to be war, with me in charge. Anyone not comfortable with that, we'll get you back to the Displaced ship of your choice—and then proceed with our mission.

"Because our mission will be to find and terminate with extreme prejudice any of these things we come across, and, yes, anyone who _knowingly_ has helped spread them. Weyland-Yutani may be the biggest windmill in the galaxy, but we're gonna tilt at it. G'Ten?"

The centauroid straightened up, as though caught napping. _{{Yes, my captain?}}_

"Will you be staying?" _Please say yes._

He actually seemed to be surprised. _{{My captain…of course I will. You are my leader. I will never leave you this side of death, and perhaps not even then.}}_

Ripley felt her eyes misting over. _Must be allergies._ "Thank you, G'Ten. Anyone wish to leave, to go home? Now's the time to say so."

Houston, Butch, and Ripley watched as the telepathic "murmur" built up around them, too random to make any sense out of. Then Ripley noticed Siraq leaning by a wall, a smirk on his face. "Mr. Siraq? I believe you've already given your decision?"

"Yeah. And I'll give ya a heads-up on theirs: they ain't goin' nowhere."

"Do you list 'clairvoyant' on your resume?"

"With this crowd, I don't have to." He looked out over the roomful of strange beings. "They may look different, but inside, we're all the same. We've all lost everything that ever mattered. Now, all any of us have left is vengeance. This ship's name says it all.

"We may be the bullets, but you're the barrel. So yeah, we're followin' you."

By this time, the room had quieted somewhat, and the Vooorm turned to Ripley. _{{My captain, our decision is unanimous. There was not even any real discussion._

 _{{This ship is our home now, and you our leader. We will follow you, and we will—I know not how—succeed in destroying these creatures._

 _{{So lead us, Ripley Ellen Ripley. Where you go, we will follow.}}_

….

Epilogue: The far side of the pulsar that had served as the site of the destruction of the _Norstromo:_

The mini-shuttle had been redesigned to include cryosleep chambers, as well as supplies and materials needed for an extended voyage. At that moment, a black, chitinous monstrosity was carrying an orange tabby cat towards a small cryosleep chamber. "I know, Jones, you don't like cryosleep. Neither do I, really. But it's necessary. We've a long, long ways to go, and this is the only way to get there in anything like an endurable timetable. So just relax." It stuffed the cat into the smaller chamber, closed the door, and watched as the cryosleep mist filled the chamber. Then it turned towards its own.

It had been a desperate gamble, firing the C-Plus, then hoping the wild radiation from both it and the pulsar would mask the launching of the shuttle. But it had apparently paid off. The creature going by the name of "Ellen Ripley" had very carefully scanned the comm frequencies, taking note of those frequencies used to detect ships and debris of ships, even as the capsule was whipping past the pulsar too fast to see. But finally, it sensed the _Vendetta_ altering course, heading back into human-controlled space. The gambit had paid off.

It got into its own chamber, which had been altered, not just for its shape, but also for its (to humans) peculiar biology. It could feel the changes taking place in itself as it became female, an egg-layer.

A queen.

One last check. Yes. The rendezvous was still set.

 _Yes, Ellen, I suppose we_ _shall_ _see whose biological imperative proves to be the most effective._

 _The End._


End file.
